Kingdom Hearts Hunger Games
by caityluv123
Summary: this is how I want my hunger games to go.
1. Chapter 1

Part I-The Tributes-

Chapter 1

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Namine's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the matress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister,Namine,curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Namine's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Namine's knees,guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Namine named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coatmatched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Namine brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Namine begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouserI clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No is the closest we wil ever come to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet.I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Namine's gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam.I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosed all of District 12,is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supossed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterent to the predators that live in the woods packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricty in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and they are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is just a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they're among our best costumers. But the idea that someone might be arming the Seam would never have been allowed.

In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises. "District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things that I would blurt out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the far off city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, which is the black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Namine might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Roxas. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Roxas says I never smile except in the woods.

"Hey, Hermy," says Roxas. My real name is Hermione, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I'd said Hermy. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn't bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt.

"Look what I shot." Roxas holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost you?"

"Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," says Roxas. "Even wished me luck."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes." Namine left us a cheese." I pull it out.

His expression brightens at the treat. "Thank you, Namine. We'll have a real feast." Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Lightning Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the reaping. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds " He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me.

I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. " be ever in your favor!" I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I watch as Roxas pulls out his knife and slices the bread. I wish he could be my brother. Spiky blond hair, white skin, we don't have the same eyes. He has blue, and I have brown. We're not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way

That's why my mother and Namine, with their light hair and blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. My mother's parents were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam costumer. They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of District 12. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father's sake. But to be honest, I'm not the forgiving type.

Roxas spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze. The food's wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Roxas, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing at the square at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out.

"We could do it, you know," Roxas says quietly.

"What?" I ask.

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," says Roxas.

I don't know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.

"If we didn't have so many kids," he adds quickly.

They're not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. Roxas' two little brothers and a sister. Namine. And you might as well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights when game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.

"I never want to have kids," I say.

"I might. If I didn't live here," says Roxas.

"But you do," I say, irritated.

"Forget it," he snaps back.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Namine, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Roxas is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did even if we did where did this stuff about having kids come from? There's never been anything romantic between Roxas and me. When we met, I was a skinny twelve-year-old, and although he was only two years older, he already looked like a man. It took a long time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over every trade and begin helping each other out.

Besides, if he wants kids, Roxas won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good-looking, he's strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way girls whisper about him when he walks by in school when they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

"What do you want to do?" I ask. We can hunt, fish, or gather.

"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight," he says.

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.

We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries. I found the patch a few years ago, but Roxas had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal. When they came up with a more efficient system that transported the coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market's still fairly busy. We easily trade six of the fish for good bread, the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She's the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don't hunt them on purpose, but if you're attacked and you take out a dog or two, well, meat is meat. "Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the mayor's house to sell half the strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness for them and can afford our price. The mayor's daughter, Selphie, opens the door. She's in my year at school. Being the mayor's daughter, you'd expect her to be a snob, but she's all right. She just keeps to herself. Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friends, we seem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sporting activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.

Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive white dress, and her red hair is done up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.

"Pretty dress," says Roxas.

Selphie shoots him a look, trying to see if it's a genuine compliment or if he's just being ironic. It is a pretty dress, but she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She presses her lips together and then smiles. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

Now it's Roxas' turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with him? I'm guessing the second.

"You won't be going to the Capitol," says Roxas coolly. His eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in bread for months. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."

"That's not her fault," I say.

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," says Roxas.

Selphie's face has become closed off. She puts the money for the berries in my hand. "Good luck, Hermione."

"You, too," I say, and the door closes.

We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don't like that Roxas took a dig at Selphie, but he's right, of course. The reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times. That's true for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire country of Panem.

But here's the catch. Say you are poor and starving as we were. You can opt to add your name more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once, because I had to, and three times for tesserae for grain and oil for myself, Namine, and my mother. In fact, every year I have needed to do this. And the entries are cumulative. So now, at the age of sixteen, my name will be in the reaping twenty times. Roxas, who is eighteen and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in forty-two times.

You can see why someone like Selphie, who has never been at risk of needing a tessera, can set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us who live in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. And even though the rules were set up by the Capitol, not the districts, certainly not Selphie's family, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tesserae.

Roxas knows his anger at Selphie is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I've listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. "It's to the Capitol's advantage to have us divided among ourselves," he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn't reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I'm sure she thought was a harmless comment.

As we walk, I glance over at Roxas' face, still smoldering underneath his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I never say so. It's not that I don't agree with him. I do. But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn't fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares of the nearby game. I let him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

Roxas and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each.

"See you in the square," I say.

"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.

At home, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Namine is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and a ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Even so, she's having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back.

A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

"Are you sure?" I ask. I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too," she says. I let her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.

"You look beautiful," says Namine in a hushed voice.

"And nothing like myself," I say. I hug her, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping. She's about as safe as you can get, since she's only entered once. I wouldn't let her take out any tesserae. But she's worried about me. That the unthinkable might happen.

I protect Namine in every way I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face. I notice her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in the back again and force myself to stay calm. "Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the blouse back in place.

Namine giggles and gives me a small "Quack."

"Quack yourself," I say with a light laugh. The kind only Namine can draw out of me. "come on let's eat," I say and plant a quick kiss on the top of her head.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery bread for this evening's meal, to make it special we say. Instead we drink milk from Namine's goat, Lady, and eat the rough bread made from the tessera grain, although no one has much appetite anyway.

At one o'clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant. The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked of by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Namine, toward the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who they no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether their Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refusing dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law? I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim the same.

Anyway, Roxas and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold District 12's population of eight thousand. Latecomers are directed to adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the states.

I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens from the Seam. We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the girls' ball. Twenty of them have Hermione Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

Two of the three chairs fill with Selphie's father, Mayor Undersee, who's a tall, balding man, and Lightning Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat.

Just as town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tributes standing wins.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. "Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen."

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Luxord Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Lightning Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Lightning Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Lightning Trinket trots to the podium to give her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Her pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly off center since her encounter with Luxord. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Roxas looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Roxas and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And maybe he's thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. "But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him.

It's time for the drawing. Lightning Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first!" and crosses to the glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.

Lightning Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me.

It's Namine Everdeen.

I DON'T OWN ANYTHING! 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale,to do anything.  
That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a boy from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.  
There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Namine was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen so remote that I'd not even bothered to worry about her. Hadn't I done everything? Taken the tesserae, refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn't mattered.  
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.  
"Namine!" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Namine!" I don't need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my arm, I push her behind me.  
"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!"  
There's some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades and the protocol has become rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been pulled from the ball, another eligible boy, if a boy's name has been read, or girl, if the girl's name has been read, can step foward to take his or her place. In some districts, in which winning the reaping is such a great honor, people are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated. But in District 12, where the word tribute is pretty much synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers are all but extinct.  
"Lovely!" says Lightning Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um..." she trails off, unsure herself.  
"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He's looking at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't know me really, but there's a faint recognition there. I am the girl who brings the strawberries. The girl his daughter might have spoken of on occasion. The girl who five years ago stood huddled with her mother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest child, with a medal of valor. A medal for her father, vaporized in the mines. Does he remember that? "What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come foward."  
Namine is screaming hysterically behind me. She's wrapped her skinny arms around me like a vice. "No, Hermione! No! You can't go!"  
"Namine, let go," I say harshly, because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. When they televise the replay of the reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction. "Let go!"  
I can feel someone pulling her from my back. I turn and see Roxas has lifted Namine off the ground and she's thrashing in his arms. "Up you go, Hermy," he says, in a voice he's fighting to keep steady, and then he carries Namine off toward my mother. I steel myself and climb the steps.  
"Well, bravo!" gushes Lightning Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name?"  
I swallow hard. "Hermione Everdeen," I say.  
"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on , everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Lightning Trinket.  
To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered Namine, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.  
Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 12 as a place that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Namine's place, and now it seems I have become someone precious. At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.  
Now I am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately Luxord chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to congratulate me. "Look at at this one!" he hollers, throwing an arm around my shoulders. He's surprisingly strong for such a wreck. "I like her!" His breath reeks of liquor and it's been a long time since he's bathed. "Lots of..." He can't think of the word for a while. "Spunk!" he says triumphantly. "More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly into a camera.  
Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually be taunting the Capitol? I'll never know because just as he's opening his mouth to continue, Luxord plumets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.  
He's disgusting, but I'm grateful. With every camera gleefully trained on him. I have just enoughtime to release the small, choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I put my hands behind my back and stare into the distance. I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Roxas. For a moment, I yearn for something...the idea of us leaving the district...making our way in the woods...but I know I was right about not running off. Because who else would have volunteered for Namine?  
Luxord is whisked away on a stretcher, and Lightning Trinket is trying to get the ball rolling again. "What an exciting day!" she warbles as she attempts to straighten her wig, which has listed severly to the right. "But more excitment to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball that cotains the boys' names and grabs the first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium, and I don't even have time to wish for Roxas' safety when she's reading the name. "Sora Mellark."  
Sora Mellark!  
Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I recognize this name, although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Sora Mellark.  
No, the odds are not in my favor today.  
I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build, brown hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I've seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place.  
Lightning Trinket asks for volunteers, but no one steps foward. He has two older brothers, I know, I've seen them in the bakery, but one is probably too old now to volunteer and the other won't. This is standard. Family devotion only goes so far for most people on reaping day. What I did was a radical thing.  
The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point- it's required- but I'm not listening to a word.  
Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Sora Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbors. We don't speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He's probably forgotton it. But I haven't and I know I never will...  
It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? Iwould cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer.  
The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of greiving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only then to collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Namine seemed to affect her.  
I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Namine just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Namine and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in a community home. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders foward. I could never let that happen to Namine. Sweet, tiny Namine who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret.  
But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by then.  
Starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the mines. Staggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools no one.  
On the afternoon of my encounter with Sora Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Namine's in the public market, but there were no I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, I was to frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes.  
I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hallow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my hands empty of any hope.  
I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck.  
All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishible by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins,and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortanetly, the bins had just been emptied.  
When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out of the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running it's icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker's trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.  
Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of have those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blonde peering out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held there pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to it's roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.  
There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, It's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried to large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crust are scorched black.  
His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one descent will buy burnt bread!"  
He began to tear of chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a costumer.  
The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with? My parents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine it. The boy took one look at back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him.  
I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped my hunting jacket tightly around me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.  
By the time I reached home, the loaves had colled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Namine's hands reached to tear of a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.  
I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. I couldn't explain his actions.  
We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Namine and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive.  
To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Sora Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more tha once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe him something, and I owing people. Maybe if I thanked him at some point, I'd be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because were going to be thrown into an arena to a fight to the death. Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank you in there? Somehow it just wont seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.  
The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Sora and me to shake hands. His are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread. Sora looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's a nervous spasm. We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays.  
Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us. Odds are someone else will kill him before I do.  
Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 The moment the anthem ends, we are taken into custody. I don't mean we're handcuffed or anything, but a group of Peacekeepers marches us through the front door of the Justice Building. Maybe tributes have tried to escape in the past. I've never seen it happen though.  
Once inside, I'm conducted to a room and left alone. It's the richest place I've ever been in, with thick, deep carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because my mother has a dress with a collar made of the stuff. When I sit on the couch, I can't help running my fingers over the fabric repeatedly. It helps to calm me as I try to prepare for the next hour. The time alloted for the tributes to say good-bye to there loved ones. I cannot afford to get upset, to leave this room with puffy eyes and red nose. Crying is not an option. There will be more cameras at the train station.  
My sister and my mother come first. I reach out to Namine and she climbs on my lap, her arms around my neck, head on my shoulder, just like she did when she was a toddler. My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling them all the things they must remember to do, now that I will not be there to do them for them.  
Namine is not to take any tesserae. They can get by, if they're careful, on selling Namine's goat milk and cheese and the small apothecary business my mother now runs for the people in the Seam. Roxas will get her the herbs she doesn't grow herself, but she must be very careful to describe them because he's not as familiar with them as I am. He'll also bring them game - he and I made a pact about this a year or so ago - and will probably not ask for compensation, but they should thank him with some kind of trade, like milk or medicine.  
I don't bother suggesting Namine learn to hunt. I tried to teach her a couple of times and it was disasterous. The woods terrified her, and whenever I shot something, she'd get teary and talk about how we might be able to heal it if we got it home soon enough. But she makes out well with her goat, so I concentrate on that.  
When I am done with instructions about fuel, and trading, and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grip her arm, hard. "Listen to me. Are you listening to me?" She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know whats coming. "You can't leave again," I say.  
My mother's eyes find the floor. "I know. I won't. I couldn't help what -"  
"Well, you have to help it this time. You can't clock out and leave Namine on her own. There's no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment.  
She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. "I was ill. I could have treated myself if I'd had the medicine I have now."  
That part about her being ill might be true. I've seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since. Perhaps it is a sickness, but it's one we can't afford.  
"Then take it. And take care of her!" I say.  
"I'll be all right, Hermione," says Namine, clasping my face in her hands. "But you have take care, too. You're so fast and brave. Maybe you can win."  
I can't win. Namine must know that in her heart. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor, who've been trained their whole lives for this. Boys who are two to three times my size. Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife. Oh, there'll be people like me, too. People to weed out before the real fun begins.  
"Maybe," I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry on if I've already given up myself. Besides, it isn't in my nature to go down without a fight, even when things seem insurmountable. "Then we'd be rich as Luxord."  
"I don't care if were rich. I just want you to come home. You will try, won't you? Really, really try?" asks Namine.  
"Really, really try. I swear it," I say. And I know, because of Namine, I'll have to.  
And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we're all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I'm saying is "I love you. I love you both." And they're saying it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.  
Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I'm surprised to see it's the baker, Sora Mellark's father. I can't believe he's come to visit me. After all, I'll be trying to kill his son soon. But we do know each other a bit, and he knows Namine even better. When she sells her goat cheeses at the Hob, she puts two of the aside for him and he gives her a generous amount of bread in return. We always wait to trade with him when his witch of a wife isn't around because he's so much nicer. I feel certain he would never have hit his son the way she did over the burned bread. But why has he come to see me?  
The baker sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush chairs. He's a big, broad-shouldered man with burn scars from years at the ovens. He must have just said good-bye to his son.  
He pulls a white paper package from his jacket pocket and holds it out to me. I open it and find cookies. These are a luxury we can never afford.  
"Thank you," I say. The baker's not a very talkative man in the best of times, and today he has nno words at all. " I had sdome of your bread this morning. My friend Roxas gave you a squirrel for it." He nods, as if remembering the squirrel. "Not your best trade," I say. He shrugs as if it couldn't possibly matter.  
Then I can't think of anything else, so we sit in silence until a Peacemaker summons him. He rises and coughs to clear his throat. "I'll keep an eye on the little girl. Make sure she's eating."  
I feel some of the pressure in my chest lighten at his words. People deal with me, but they are genuinely fond of Namine. Maybe there will be fondness to keep her alive.  
My next guest is also unexpected. Selphie walks straight to me. She is not weepy or evasive, instead there's an urgency about her tone that surprises me. "They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" She holds out the circular gold pin that was on her dress earlier. I hadn't paid much attention to it before, but now I see it's a small bird in flight.  
"Your pin?" I say. Wearing a token from my district is about the last thing on my mind.  
"Here, I'll put it on your dress, all right?" Selphie doesn't wait for an answer, she just leans in and fixes the bird to my dress. "Promise you'll wear it into the arena, Hermione?" she asks. "Promise?"  
"Yes," I say. Cookies. A pin. I'm getting all kinds of gifts today. Selphie gives me one more. A kiss on the cheek. Then she's gone and I'm left thinking that maybe Selphie really has been my friend all along.  
Finally, Roxas is here and maybe there is nothing romantic between us, but when he opens his arms I don't hesitate to go into them. His body is familiar to me - the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt - but this is the first time I really felt it, lean and hard-muscled against my own.  
"Listen," he says. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you've got to get your hands on a bow. That's your best chance."  
"They don't always have bows," I say, thinking of the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one anther to death with.  
"Then make one," says Roxas. "Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all."  
I have tried copying my father's bows with poor results. It's not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work sometimes.  
"I don't even know if there'll be wood," I say. Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes. I particularly hated that year. Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes or went insane from thirst.  
"There's almost always some wood," Roxas says. "Since that year half of them died of cold. Not much entertainment in that."  
It's true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the players freeze to death at night. You could hardly see them because they were just huddled in balls and had no wood for fires or torches or anything. It was considered very anti-climactic in the Capitol, all those quiet, bloodless deaths. Since then, there's usually been wood to make fires.  
"Yes, there's usually some," I say.  
"Hermione, it's just hunting. You're the best hunter I know," says Roxas.  
"It's not just hunting. They're armed. They think," I say.  
"So do you. And you've had more practice. Real practice," he says. "You know how to kill."  
"Not people," I say.  
"How different can it be, really?" says Roxas grimly.  
The awful thing is that if I can forget they're people, it will be no different at all.  
The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Roxas asks for more time, but they're taking him away and I start to panic "Don't let them starve!" I cry out, clinging to his hand.  
"I won't! You know I won't! Hermione, remember I-" he says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I'll never know what it was he wanted me to remember.  
It's a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station. I've never been in a car before. Rarely even ridden in wagons. In the Seam, we travel on foot.  
I've been right not to cry. The station is swarming with reporters with their insectlike cameras trained directly on my face. But I've had a lot of practice at wiping my face clean of emotions and I do this now. I catch a glimpse of myself on the television screen on the wall that's airing my arrival live and feel gratified that I appear almost bored.  
Sora Mellark, on the other hand, has obviously been crying and intrestingly enough does not seem to be trying to cover it up. I immediately wonder if this will be his strategy in the Games. To appear weak and frightened, to reassure the other tributes that he is no competition at all, and then come out fighting. This worked out very well for a girl, Sarah Mason, from District 7 a few years back. She seemed like such a sniveling, cowardly fool that no one bothered about her until there were only a handful of contestants left. It turned she could kill viciously. Pretty clever, the way she played it. But this seems an odd strategy for Sora Mellark because he's a baker's son. All those years of having enough to eat and hauling bread trays around have made him broad-shouldered and strong. It will take an awful lot of weeping to convince anyone to overlook him.  
We have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train while the cameras gobble up our images, then we're allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind us. The train begins to move at once.  
The speed intially takes my breath away. Of course, I've never been on a train, as travel between the districts is forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. For us, that's mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train. It's one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. Our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day.  
In school, they tell us the Capitol was built in a place once called the Rockies. District 12 was in a region known as Appalachia. Even hundreds of years ago, they mined coal here. Which is why our miners have to dig so deep.  
Somehow it all comes back to coal at school. Besides basic reading and math most of our instruction is coal-related. Except for the weekly lecture on the history of Panem. It's mostly a lot of blather about what we owe the Capitol. I know there must be more than they're telling us, an actual account of what happened during the rebellion. But I don't spend much time thing about it. Whatever the truth is, I don't see how it will help me get food on the table.  
The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice Building. We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. We don't have hot water at home, unless we boil it.  
There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Lightning Trinket tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. I peel of my mother's blue dress and take a hot shower. I've never had a shower before. It's like being in a summer rain, only warmer. I dress in a dark green shirt and pants.  
At the last minute, I remember Selphie's little gold pin. For the first time, I get a good look at it. It's as if someone fashioned a small golden bird and then attached a ring around it. The bird is connected to the ring only by its wing tips. I suddenly recognize it. A mockingjay.  
They're funny birds and something of a slap in the face to the Capitol. During the rebllion, the Capitol bred a seris of genetically altered animals as weapons. The common term for them was mutations, or sometimes mutts for short. One was a special bird called a jabberjay that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where the Capitol's enemies were known to be hiding. After the birds gathered words, they'd fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people awhile to realize what was going on in the districts, how private conversations were being transmitted. Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild.  
Only they didn't die off. Instead, the jabberjays mated with female mockingbirds, creating a whole new species that could replicate both bird whistles and human melodies. They had lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a range of human vocal sounds, from a child's high-pitched warble to a mans deep tones. And they could recreate songs. Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience to sing them and if they liked your voice.  
My father was particularly fond of mockingjays. When we went hunting, he would whistle and sing complicated songs to them and, after a polite pause, they'd always sing back. Not everyone is treated with such respect. But whenever my father sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen. His voice was that beautiful, high and clear and so filled with life it made want to laugh and cry at the same time. I could never bring myself to continue the practice after he was gone. Still, there's something comforting about the little bird. It's like having a piece of my father with me, protecting me. I fasten the pin onto my shirt, and with the dark green fabric as a background, I can almost imagine the mockingjay flying through the trees.  
Lightning Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls. There's a table where all the dishes are highly breakable. Sora Mellark sits waiting for us, the chair next to him empty.  
"Where's Luxord?" asks Lightning Trinket brightly.  
"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," says Sora.  
"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Lightning Trinket. I think she's relieved by Luxord's absence, and who can blame her?  
The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Lightning Trinket keeps reminding us to save space because there's more to come. But I'm stuffing myself because I've never had food like this, so good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.  
The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who'd never, not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. And when they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on their minds. Sora's a baker's son. My mother taught Namine and me to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But I hate Lightning Trinket's comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth. This make her purse her lips tightly together.  
Now that the meal's over, I'm fighting to keep the food down. I can see Sora's looking a little green, too. Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare. But if I can hold down Greasy Sae's concoction of mice meat, pig entrails, and tree bark-a winter specialty- I'm detirmined to hang onto this.  
We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout the day so a person could concievably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since none of them have to attend reapings themselves.  
One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called, the volunteers stepping foward or, more often, not. We examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition. A few stand out in my mind. A monstrous boy who lunges foward to volunteer from District 2. A fox-faced girl with sleek red hair from District 5. A boy with a crippled foot from District 10. And most hauntingly, a twelve-year-old girl from District 11. She has light skin and eyes, but other than that, she's very like Namine in size and demeanor. Only when she mounts the stage and they ask for volunteers, all you can hear is the wind whistling through the decripit buildings around her. There's no one willing to take her place.  
Last of all, they show District 12. Namine being called, me running foward to volunteer. You can't miss the desperation in my voice as I shove Namine behind me, as if I'm afraid no one will hear and they'll take Namine away. But, of course, they do hear. I see Roxas pulling her off me and watch myself mount the stage. The commentators are not sure what to say about the crowd's refusal to applaud. The silent salute. One says that District 12 has always been a bit backward but that local customs can be charming. As if on cue, Luxord falls off the stage, and they groan comically. Sora's name is drawn, and he quietly takes his place. We shake hands. They cut to the anthem again, and the program ends.  
Lightning Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was in. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."  
Sora unexpectedly laughs. "He was drunk," says Sora. "He's drunk every year."  
"Every day," I add. I can't help smirking a little. Lightning Trinket makes it sound like Luxord just has somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips from her.  
"Yes," hisses Lightning Trinket. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Luxord can well be the difference between your life and death!"  
Just then, Luxord staggers into the compartment. "I miss supper?" he says in a slurred voice. Then he vomits all over the expensive carpet and falls in the mess.  
"So laugh away!" says Lightning Trinket. She hops in her pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 For a few moments, Sora and I take in the scene of our mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his stomach. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings my dinner up. We exchange a glance. Obviously Luxord isn't much, but Lightning Trinket is right about one thing, once we're in the arena he's all we've got. As if by some unspoken agreement, Sora and I each take one of Luxord's arms and help him to his feet.  
"I tripped?" Luxord asks. "Smells bad." He wipes his hand on his nose, smearing his face with vomit.  
"Let's get you back to your room," says Sora. "Clean you up a bit."  
We half-lead half-carry Luxord back to his compartment. Since we can't exactly set him down on the embroidered bedspread, we haul him into the bathtub and turn the shower on him. He hardly notices.  
"It's okay," Sora says to me. "I'll take it from here."  
I can't help feeling a little grateful since the last thing I want to do is strip down Luxord, wash the vomit out of his chest hair, and tuck him into bed. Possibly Sora is trying to make a good impression on him, to be his favorite once the Games begin. But judging by the state he's in, Luxord will have no memory of this tomorrow.  
"All right," I say. "I can't send one of the Capitol people to help you." There's any number on the train. Cooking for us. Waiting on us. Guarding us. Taking care of us in their job.  
"No. I don't want them," says Sora.  
I nod and head to my own room. I understand how Sora feels. I can't stand the sight of the Capitol people myself. But making them deal with Luxord might be a small form of revenge. So I'm pondering the reason why he insists on taking care of Luxord and all of a sudden I think, It's because he's being kind. Just as he was kind to give me the bread.  
The idea pulls me up short. A kind Sora Mellark is far more dangerous to me than an unkind one. Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there. And I can't let Sora do this. Not where we're going. So I decide, from this moment on, to have as little as possible to do with the baker's son.  
When I get back to my room, the train is pausing at the platform to refuel. I quickly open the window, toss the cookies Sora's father gave me out of the train, and slam the glass shut. No more. No more of either of them.  
Unfortanately, the packet of cookies hits the ground and burst open in a patch dandelions by the track. I only see the image for a moment, because the train is off again, but it's enough. Enough to remind me of that other dandelion in the school yard years ago...  
I had turned away from Sora Mellark's bruised face when I saw the dandelion and I knew hope wasn't lost. I plucked it carefully and hurryed home. I grabbed a bucket and Namine's hand and headed to the Meadow and yes, it was dotted with the golden-headed weeds. After we harvested those, we scrounged along inside the fence for probably a mile until we'd filled the bucket with the dandelion greens, stems, and flowers. That night, we gorged ourselves on dandelion salad and the rest of the bakery bread.  
"What else?" Namine asked me. "What other food can we find?"  
"All kinds of things," I promised her. "I just have to remember them."  
My mother had a book she'd brought with her from the apothecary shop. The pages were made of old parchment and covered in ink drawings of plants. Neat handwritten blocks told their names, where to gather them, when they came in bloom, their medical uses. But my father added other entries to the book. Plants for eating, not healing. Dandelions, pokeweed, wild onions, pines. Namine and I spent the rest of the night poring over these pages.  
The next day, we were off school. For a while I hung around the edges of the Meadow, but finally I worked up the courage to go under the fence. It was the first time I'd been there alone, without my father's weapons to protect me. But I retrieved the small bow and arrows he'd made me from a hollow tree. I probably didn't go more than twenty yards into the woods that day. Most of the time, I perched up in the branches of an old oak, hoping for game to come by. After several hours, I had good luck to kill a rabbit. I'd shot a few rabbits before, with my father's guidance. But this I'd done on my own.  
We hadn't had meat in months. The sight of the rabbit seemed to stir something in my mother. She roused herself, skinned the carcass, and made a stew with the meat and some more greens Namine had gathered. Then she acted confused and went back to bed, but when the stew was done, we made her eat a bowl.  
The woods became our savior, and each day I went a bit farther into its arms. It was slow-going at first, but I was determined to feed us. I stole eggs from nests, caught fish in nets, sometimes managed to shoot a squirrel or rabbit for stew, and gathered the various plants that sprung up beneath my feet. Plants are tricky. Many are edible, but one false mouthful and you're dead. I checked and double-checked the plants I harvested with my father's pictures. I kept us alive.  
Any sign of danger, a distant howl, the inexplicable break of a branch, sent me flying back to the fence at first. Then I began to risk climbing trees to escape the wild dogs that quickly got bored and moved on. Bears and cats lived deeper in, perhaps disliking the sooty reek of our district.  
On May 8th, I went to the Justice building, signed up for my tesserae, and pulled home my first batch of grain and oil in Namine's toy wagon. On the eighth of every month, I was entitled to do the same. I couldn't stop hunting and gathering, of course. The grain was not enough to live on, and there were other things to buy, soap and milk and thread. What we didn't absolutely have to eat, I began to trade at the Hob. It was frightening to enter that place without my father at my side, but people had respected him, and they accepted me. Game was game after all, no matter who'd shot it. I also sold at the back doors of the wealthier clients in town, trying to remember what my father had told me and and learning a few tricks as well. The butcher would buy my rabbits but not squirrels. The baker enjoyed squirrel but would only trade for one if his wife wasn't around. The Head Peacekeeper loved wild turkey. The mayor had a passion for strawberries.  
In late summer, I was washing up in a pond when I noticed the plants growing around me. Tall with leaves like arrowheads. Blossoms with three white petals. I knelt down in the water, my fingers digging into the soft mud, and I pulled up handfuls of the roots. Small, bluish tubers that don't look like much but boiled or baked are as good as any potato. "Katniss," I said aloud. It's the plant my I was named for. And I heard my father's voice joking, "As long as you can find yourself, you'll never starve." I spent hours stirring up the pond bed with my toes and a stick, gathering the tubers that floated to the top. That night, we feasted on fish and katniss roots until we were all, for the first time in months, full.  
Slowly, my mother returned to us. She began to clean and cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for winter. People traded us or paid money for her medical remidies. One day, I heard her singing.  
Namine was thrilled to have her back, but I kept watching, waiting for her to disappear on us again. I didn't trust her. And some small gnarled place inside me hated her for her weakness, for her neglect, for the months she had put us through. Namine forgave her, but I had taken a step back from my mother, put up a wall to protect myself from needing her, and nothing was ever the same between us again.  
Now I was going to die without that ever being set right. I thought of how I had yelled at her today in the Justice Building. I had told her I loved her, too, though. So maybe it would all balance out.  
For a while I stand staring out the train window, wishing I could open it again, but unsure of what would happen at such high speed. In the distance, I see the lights of another district. 7? 10? I don't know. I think about the people in their houses, settling in for bed. I imagine my home, with its shutters drawn tight. What are they doing now, my mother and Namine? Were they able to eat supper? The fish stew and the strawberries? Or did it lie untouched on their plates? Did they watch the recap of the day's events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall? Surely, there were more tears. Is my mother holding up, being strong for Namine? Or has she already starting to slip away, leaving the weight of the world on my sister's fragile shoulders?  
Namine will undoubtebly sleep with my mother tonight. The thought of that scruffy old Buttercup posting himself on the bed to watch over Namine comforts me. If she cries, he will nose his way into her arms and curl up there until she calms and falls asleep. I'm so glad I didn't drown him.  
Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness. This day has been endless. Could Roxas and I have been eating blackberries only this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago. Like a long dream that detoriorated into a nightmare. Maybe if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in District 12, where I belong.  
Probably the drawers hold any number of nightgowns, but I just strip off my shirt and pants and climb into bed in my underwear. The sheets are made of soft, silky fabric. A thick fluffy comforter gives immediate warmth.  
If I'm going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning, I'll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face. But no tears come. I'm too tired or too numb to cry. The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I let the train rock me into oblivion.  
Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me. I hear Lightning Trinket's voice, calling me to rise. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that women's head. What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no idea.  
I put the green outfit back on since it's not really dirty, just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor. My fingers trace the circle around the little gold mockingjay and I think of the woods, and of my father, and of my mother and Namine waking up, having to get on with things. I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the reaping and it doesn't look to bad, so I just leave it up. It doesn't matter. We can't be far from the Capitol now. And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who doesn't think nudity is the last word in fashion.  
As I enter the dining car, Lightning Trinket brushes by me with a cup of black coffee. She's muttering obscenities under her breath. Luxord, his face puffyand red from the previous day's indulgences, is chuckling. Sora holds a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed.  
"Sit down! Sit down!" says Luxord, waving me over. The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week. There's an elegant glass of orange juice. At least, I think it's orange juice. I've only tasted an orange once, at New Year's when my father bought one as a special treat. A cup of coffee. My mother adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something I've never seen.  
"They call it hot chocolate," says Sora. "It's good."  
I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I've drained my cup. Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I'll never see food again. And I said, "I won't unless I bring it home." That shut her up.  
When my stomach feels like it's about to split open, I lean back and take in my breakfast companions. Sora is still eating, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate. Luxord hasn't paid much attention to his platter, but he's knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it's some kind of spirit. I don't know Luxord, but I've seen him often enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor. He'll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol.  
I realize I detest Luxord. No wonder the District 12 tributes never stand a chance. It isn't just that we've been underfed and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors and he's a big part of the reason why. The rich people ho back tributes-either because they're betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner-expect someone classier than Luxord to deal with.  
"So, you're supposed to give us advice," I say to Luxord.  
"Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Luxord, and then bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Sora before I remember I'm having nothing more to do with him. I'm suprised to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so mild.  
"That's very funny," says Sora. Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Luxord's hand. It shatters on the floor, sending the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. "Only not to us."  
Luxord considers this a moment, then punches Sora in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace myself to deflect his hit, but it doesn't come. Instead he sits back and squints at us.  
"Well, what's this?" says Luxord. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"  
Sora rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the red mark on his jaw.  
"No," says Luxord, stopping him. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."  
"That's against the rules," says Sora.  
"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better," says Luxord. He turns to me. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"  
The bow and arrow is my weapon. But I've spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well. Sometimes, if I've wounded an animal with an arrow, it's better to get a knife into it, too, before I approach it. I realize that if I want Luxord's attention, this is my moment to make an impression. I yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and then throw it into the wall across the room. I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.  
"Stand over here. Both of you," says Luxord, nodding to the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us, prodding us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our faces. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."  
Sora and I don't question this. The Hunger Games aren't a beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to pull more sponsors.  
"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you," says Luxord. "But you have to do exactly what I say."  
It's not much of a deal but still a giant step foward from ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.  
"Fine," says Sora.  
"So help us," I say. "When we go to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"  
"One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Luxord.  
"But-" I begin.  
"No buts. Don't resist," says Luxord. He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark. There are still a few lights inside, but outside it's as night has fallen again. I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost imposible to enter from the east except through the tunnels. This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol's air forces.  
Sora Mellark and I stand in silence as the train speeds along. The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock seperating me from the sky, and my chest tightens. I hate being encased in stone this way. It reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever in darkness.  
The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the compartment. We can't help it. Both Sora and I run to the window to see what we've only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. The cameras haven't lied about it's grandeur. If anything, they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizzare hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal. All the colors seem artifical, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop in District 12.  
The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city. I step away fromthe window, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can't wait to watch us die. But Sora holds his ground, actually waving and smiling at the gawking crowd. He only stops when train pulls into the station, blocking us from their view.  
He sees me staring at him and shrugs. "Who knows?" he says. "One of them may be rich."  
I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the reaping began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed Namine...did Sora put him up to that? His tears at the station. Volunteering to wash Luxord but then challenging him this morning when appearently the nice-guy approach had failed. And now the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd.  
All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he has a plan forming. He hasn't accepted his death. He is already fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Sora Mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill me.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of fabric from my leg, tearing out the hair beneath it. "Sorry!" she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just so hairy!"  
Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if their asking a question? Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s...no wonder it's impossible not to mimic them.  
Aqua makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face. "Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?" I get a grip on the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod. The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.  
I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist. Appearently he has no interest in seeing me until Aqua and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty foam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs, arms, torso, under-arms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the stuff, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting. I don't like it. My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my side of the bargain with Luxord, and no objection has crossed my lips.  
"You're doing very well," says some guy named Flavius. He gives his blonde corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. "If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner. Grease her down!"  
Venia and Oerba, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, weilding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-concious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet.  
The three step back and admire there work. "Excellent! You almost look like a human being!" says Flavius, and they all laugh.  
I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am. "Thank you," I say sweetly. "We don't have much cause to look nice in District Twelve."  
This wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't, you poor darling!" says Oerba clasping her hands together in distress for me.  
"But don't worry," says Venia. "By the time Sazh is done with you, you're going to be absolutely gorgeous!"  
"We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Flavius encouragingly. "Let's call Sazh!"  
They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me.  
I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retreive my robe. But this Sazh, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone. My fingers strokes the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home. Now I wish I had.  
The door open and a young man who must be Sazh enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered they're grotesque. But Snow's close-cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He's in a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to self-alteration seems to be mettalic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his green eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions, I can't help thinking how attractive it looks.  
"Hello, Hermione. I'm Sazh, your stylist," he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol's affectations.  
"Hello," I venture cautiously.  
"Just give me a moment, all right?" he asks. He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. "Who did your hair?"  
"My mother," I say.  
"It's beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," he says.  
I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter. Snow has met none of these expectations.  
"You're new, aren't you? I don't think I've seen you before," I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, contestants in the ever-changing pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole life.  
"Yes, this my first year in the Games," says Snow.  
"So they gave you District Twelve," I say. Newcomers genarally end up with us, the least desireable district.  
"I asked for District Twelve," he says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe a we'll have a chat."  
Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank,the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Sazh invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.  
I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home. Chickens are to expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey. I'd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat's milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I'd have to get wild onions from the woods. I don't recognize the grain, our own tessera ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can't even guess what's in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be poor substitution for the Capitol version.  
What it must be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for thier entertainment?  
I look up a find Sazh eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says.  
Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? He's right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.  
"No matter," says Sazh. "So, Hermione, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Arylon, is the stylist for your former tribute, Sora. And our current thought is to dress you in complemetary costumes," says Sazh. "As you know, it's costumary to reflect the flavor of the district.  
For the opening ceremonies, you're suppossed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. This means that coming from District 12, Sora and I will be in some kind of coal miners getup. Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust. It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.  
"So, I'll be in a coal miner outfit?" I ask, hoping it won't be indecent.  
"Not exactly. You see, Arylon and I think that coal miner things very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Sazh.  
I'll be naked for sure, I think.  
"So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Sazh.  
Naked and covered in black dust, I think.  
"And what do we do with coal? We burn it," says Sazh. "You're not afraid of fire, are you, Hermione?" He sees my expression and grins.  
A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies. I'm in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it's the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume. Sazh plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets.  
"It's not real flame, of course, just a litle synthetic fire Arylon and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he says. But I'm not convinced I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center.  
My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting here and there. My hair has been brushed out and braided down my back in my usual style. "I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," says Sazh dreamily. "Hermione, the girl who was on fire."  
It crosses my mind that Sazh's calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman.  
Despite this morning's revelation about Sora's character, I'm actually relieved when he shows up, dressed in an identical costume. He should know about fire, being a baker's son and all. His stylist, Arylon, and her team accompany him, and everyone is absolutly giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Sazh. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.  
We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Sazh and Arylon direct us into the chariot and carefuly arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other.  
"What do you think?" I whisper to Sora. "About the fire?"  
"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth.  
"Deal," I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough, we'll avoid the worst burns. It's bad though. They'll throw us into the arena no matter what condition we're in. "I know we promised Luxord we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."  
"Where is Luxord, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" says Sora.  
"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," I say.  
And suddenly we're both laughing. I guess we're both so nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being turned into human torches, were not acting sensibly.  
The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide opens revealing the crowd-lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin.  
The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd. They are always favorites.  
District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Sazh appears with a lighted torch. "Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire. I gasp waiting for the heat, but theres only a faint tickling sensation. Sazh climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sigh of relief. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"  
Sazh jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts it again and gestures.  
"What's he saying?" I ask Sora. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too.  
"I think he said for us to hold hands," says Sora. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we lokk to Sazh for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city.  
The crowd's intial alarm at our appearences quickly changes to cheers and shouts of "District Twelve!" Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelightilluminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Sazh was right about the minamal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable.  
Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you! I hears Sazh's voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my worst winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I'm glad now I have Sora to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program.  
The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't supress my excitement. Sazh has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Hermione. The girl who was on fire.  
For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games?  
Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real tanglible thing.  
"Hermione! Hermione!" I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my kisses.  
It's not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in Sora's hand. That's how tightly I've been holding it. I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. "No, don't let go of me," he says. The firelight flickers off his blue eyes. "Please. I might fall out of this thing."  
"Okay," I say. So I keep holding on, but I can't help feeling strange about the way Sazh has linked us together. It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other.  
The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigous citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.  
The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is traditional to cut away from the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime. The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and dissappears into the Training Center.  
The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unitelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all. Then Sazh and Arylon are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses. Arylon extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister.  
I realize I'm still glued to Sora and force my stiff fingers to open. We both massage our hands.  
"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Sora.  
"It didn't show," I tell him. "I'm sure no one noticed."  
"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," he says. "They suit you." And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.  
A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Sora is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likeable he is, the more deadly he is.  
But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams. This will be our home until the actual Games begin. Each district has an entire floor. You simply step onto an elevator and press the number of the district. Easy enough to remember.  
I've ridden the elevator a couple of times in the Justice Building back in District 12. Once to recieve the medal for my father's death and then yesterday to say my final good-byes to my friends and family. But that's a dark and creaky thing that moves like a snail and smells of sour milk. The walls of this elevator are made of crystal so that you can watch the people on the ground floor shrink to ants as you shoot up into the air. It's exhilarating and I'm tempted to ask Lightning Trinket if we can ride it again, but somehow that seems childish.  
Apparently, Lightning Trinket's duties did not conclude at the station. She and Luxord will be overseeing us right into the arena. In a way, that's a plus because at least she can be counted on to corral us around to places on time whereas we haven't seen Luxord since he agreed to help us on the train. Probably passed out somewhere. Lightning Trinket, on the other hand, seems to be flying high. We're the first team she's ever chaperoned that made a splash at the opening ceremonies. She's complimentary about not just our costumes but how we conducted ourselves. And, to hear her tell it, Lightning knows everyone who's anyone in the Capitol and has been talking us up all day, trying to win us sponsors.  
"I've been very mysterious, though," she says, her eyes squint half shut. "Because, of course, Luxord hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Hermione sacrificed herself for her sister. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district."  
Barbarism? That's ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for the slaughter. And what's she basing our success on? Our table manners?  
"Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!'" Lightning beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though it's wrong.  
Coal doesn't turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish. Possibly she meant coal turns to diamonds, but that's untrue, too. I've heard they have some sort of machine in District 1 that can turn graphite into diamonds. But we don't mine graphite in District 12. That was part of District 13's job until they were destroyed.  
I wonder if the people she's been plugging us to all day either know or care.  
"Unfortanatly, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Luxord can do that," says Lightning grimly. "But don't worry, I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."  
Although lacking in many departments, Lightning Trinket has a certain determination I have to admire.  
My quarters are larger than our entire house back home. They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many automatic gadgets that I'm sure I won't have time to press all the buttons. The shower alone has a panel with more than a hundred options you can choose regulating water temprature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy curtain.  
I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The windows zoom in and out on parts of the city at my command. You need only whisper a type of food from a gigantic menu into a mouthpiece and it appears, hot and steamy, before you in less than a minute. I walk around the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there's a knock on the door. Lightning's calling me to dinner.  
Good. I'm starving.  
Sora, Sazh, and Arylon are standing out on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room. I'm glad to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Luxord will be joining us. A meal presided over by just Lightning and Luxord is bound to be a disaster. Besides, dinner isn't really about food, it's about planning out our strategies, and Sazh and Arylon have already proven how valuable they are. A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers us all stemmed glasses of wine. I think about turning it down, but I've never had wine, except the homemade stuff my mother uses for coughs, and when will I get a chance to try it again? I take a sip of the tart, dry liquid and secretly think it could be improved by a few spoonfuls of honey.  
Luxord shows up just as dinner is being served. It looks as if he's had his own stylist because he's clean and groomed and about as sober as I've ever seen him. He doesn't refuse the offer of wine, but when he starts in on his soup, I realize it's the first time I've seen him eat. Maybe he really will pull himself together long enough to help us.  
Sazh and Arylon seem to have a civilizing effect on Luxord and Lightning. At least they're addressing each other decently. And they both have nothing but praise for our stylists' opening act. While they make small talk, I concentrate on the meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of peas, rare roast beef sliced as thin as paper, noodles in green sauce, cheese that melts your tongue served with sweet blue grapes. The servers, all young people dressed in white tunics like the one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and from the table, keeping the platters and glasses full.  
About halfway through my glass of wine, my head starts feeling foggy, so I change to water instead. I don't like the feeling and hope it wears off soon. How Luxord can stand walking around like this full-time is a mystery.  
I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our interview costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-lokking cake on the table and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker around the edges a while until it finally goes out. I have a moment of doubt. "What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?" I say, looking up at the girl. "That's the last thing I wa-oh! I know you!"  
I can't place a name or time to the girl's face. But I'm certain of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the porcelian white skin. But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and while I can't pull it up, I know some bad memory is associated with her. The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds to my confusion and unease. She shakes her head in denial quickly and hurries away from the table.  
When I look back, the four adults are watching me like hawks.  
"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione. How could you possibly know an Avox?" snaps Lightning. "The very thought."  
"What's an Avox?" I ask stupidly.  
"Someone who commited a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," says Luxord. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her."  
"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of then unless it''s to give an order," says Lightning. "Of course, you don't really know her."  
But I do know her. And now that Luxord has mentioned the word traitor I remember from where. The disapproval is so high I could never admit it. "No, I guess not, I just-" I stammer, and the wine is not helping.  
Sora snaps his fingers. "Aerieth Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Aerieth."  
Aerieth Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does a butterfly. She may also be the freindliest person on the planet-she smiles constantly at everybody in school, even me. I have never seen the girl with the red hair smile. But I jump on Sora's suggestion gratefully. "Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," I say.  
"Something about the eyes, too," says Sora.  
The energy at the table relaxes. "Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Sazh. "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut."  
We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies that's being broadcast. A few of the other couples make a nice impression, but none of them can hold a candle to us. Even our own party lets out an "Ahh!" as they show us coming out of Remake Center.  
"Whose idea was the hand holding?" asks Luxord.  
"Sazh's," says Arylon.  
"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Luxord. "Very nice."  
Rebellion? I have to think about that one a moment. But when I remember the other couples, standing stiffly apart, never touching or acknowledging each other, as if their fellow tributes did not exist, as if the Games had already begun, I know what Luxord means. Presenting ourselves not as adversaries but as friends has distiguished us as much as the fiery costumes.  
"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it," says Luxord to Sora and me. "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."  
Sora and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms. When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him. "So, Aerieth Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here."  
He's asking for an explanation, and I'm tempted to give him one. We both know he covered for me. So here I am in his debt again. If I tell the truth about the girl, somehow that might even things up. How can it hurt really? Even if he repeated the story, it couldn't do much harm. It was something I witnessed. And he lied as much as I did about Aerieth Cartwright.  
I realize I do want to talk to someone about the girl. Someone who might be able to help me figure out her story. Roxas would be my first coice, but it's unlikely I'll ever see Roxas again. I try to think if telling Sora could give him any possible advantage over me, but I don't see how. Maybe sharing a confidence will actually make him believe I see him as a friend.  
Besides, the idea of the girl with her maimed tongue frightens me. She has reminded me why I'm here. Not to model flashy costumes and eat delacacies. But to die a bloody death while the crowds urge on my killer.  
To tell or not to tell? My brain still feels slow from the wine. I stare down the empty corridor as if the decision lies there.  
Sora picks up on my hesitation. "Have you been on the roof yet?" I shake my head. "Sazh showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The winds a bit loud, though."  
I translate this into "No one will overhear us talking" in my head. You do have the sense that we might be under surveilence here. "Can we just go up?"  
"Sure, come on," says Sora. I follow him to a flight of stairs that lead to the roof. There's a small dome-shaped room with a door to the outside. As we step into the cool, windy evening air, I catch my breath at the view. The Capitol twinkles like a vast field of fireflies. Electricity in District 12 comes and goes, usually we only have it a few hours a day. Often the evenings are spent in candlelight. The only time you can count on it is when they're airing the Games or some important government message on television that it's mandatory to watch. But here there would be no shortage. Ever.  
Sora and I walk to a railing at the edge of the roof. I look straight down the side of the building to the street, which is buzzing with people. You can hear their cars, an occasional shout, and a strange mettalic tinkling. In District 12, we'd all be thinking about bed right now.  
"I asked Sazh why they let us up here. Weren't they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?" says Sora.  
"What'd he say?" I ask.  
"You can't," says Sora. He holds out his hand into seemingly empty space. There's a sharp zap and he jerks it back. "Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof."  
"Always worried about our safety," I say. Even though Sazh has shown Sora the roof, I wonder if we're supposed to be up here now, so late and alone. I've never seen tributes on the Training Center roof before. But that doesn't mean we're not being taped. "Do you think they're watching us now?"  
"Maybe," he admits. "Come see the garden."  
On the other side of the dome, they've built a garden with flower beds and potted trees. From the branches hundreds of wind chimes, which account for the tinkling I heard. Here in the garden, on this windy night, it's enough to drown out two people who are trying not to be heard. Sora looks at me expectantly.  
I pretend to examine a blossom. "We were hunting in the woods on day. Hidden, waiting for game," I whisper.  
"You and your father?" he whispers back.  
"No, my friend Roxas. Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. And then we saw her. I'm sure it was the same girl. A boy was with her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep. They were running as if their lives depended on it," I say.  
For a moment I'm silent, as I remember how the sight of this strange pair, clearly not from District 12, fleeing through the woods immobilized us. Later, we wondered if we could have helped then escape. Perhaps we might have. Concealed them. If we'd moved quickly. Roxas and I were taken by suprise, yes, but we're both hunters. We know how animals look at bay. We knew the pair was in trouble as soon as we saw them. But we only watched.  
"The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere," I continue to Sora. "I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there. It didn't make a sound, but they saw it. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast like the elevator. They shot some sort of spear through the boy. it was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But I'm certain he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy's name, I think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened."  
"Did they see you?" Sora asked.  
"I don't know. We were under a shelf of rock," I reply. But I do know. There was a moment, after the birdcall, but before the hovercraft, where the girl had seen us. She'd locked eyes with me and called out for help. But neither Roxas or I had responded.  
"You're shivering," says Sora.  
The wind and the story have blown all the warmth from my body. The girl's scream. Had it been her last?  
Sora takes of his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right?  
"They were from here?" he asks, and he secures a button at my neck.  
I nod. They'd had that Capitol look about them. The boy and the girl.  
"Where do you suppose they were going?" he asks.  
"I don't know that," I say. District 12 is pretty much the end of the line. Beyond us, there's only wilderness. If you don't count the ruins of District 13 that still smolder from the toxic bombs. They show it on television occasionally, just to remind us. "Or why they would leave here." Luxord had called the Avox traitors. Against what? It could only be the Capitol. But they had everything here. No cause to rebel.  
"I'd leave here," Sora blurts out. Then he looks around nervously. It was loud enough to hear above the chimes. He laughs. "I'd go home now if they let me. But you have to admit, the foods prime."  
He's covered again. If that's all you heard it would just sound like the words of a scared tribute, not someone contemplating the unquestionable goodness of the Capitol.  
"It's getting chilly. We better go in," he says. Inside the dome, it's warm and bright. His tone is conversational. "Your friend Roxas. He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?"  
"Yes. Do you know him?" I ask.  
"Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something. You favor each other," he says.  
"No, were not related," I say.  
Sora nods, unreadable. "Did he come to say good-bye to you?"  
"Yes," I say, observing him carefully. "So did your father. He brought me cookies."  
Sora raises his eyebrows as if this is news. But after watching him lie so smoothly, I don't give this much weight. "Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys."  
The idea that I might ever have been discussed, around the dinner table, at the bakery fire, just in passing in Sora's house gives me a start. It must have been when the mother was out of the room.  
"He knew your mother when they were kids," says Sora.  
Another suprise. But probably true. "Oh, yes. She grew up in town," I say. It seems impolite to say she never mentioned the baker except to compliment his bread.  
We're at my door. I give back his jacket. "See you in the morning then."  
"See you," he says, and walks of down the hall.  
When I open my door, the redheaded girl is collecting my unitard and boots from where I left them on the floor before my shower. I want to apologize for possibly getting her in trouble earlier. But I remember I'm not supposed to speak to her unless I'm giving her an order.  
"Oh, sorry," I say. "I was supposed to get those back to Sazh. I'm sorry. Can you take them to him?"  
She avoids my eyes, gives a small nod, and heads out the door.  
I'd set out to tell her I was sorry about dinner. But I know that my apology runs much deeper. That I'm ashamed I never tried to help her in the woods. That I let the Capitol kill the boy and mutilate her without lifting a finger.  
Just like I was watching the Games.  
I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my clothes. The shivering hasn't stopped. Perhaps the girl doesn't even remember me. But I know she does. You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope. I pull the covers up over my head as if this will protect me from the redheaded girl who can't speak. But I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing through walls and doors and bedding.  
I wonder if she'll enjoy watching me die.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 My slumbers are filled with disturbing dreams. The face of the redheaded girl intertwines with gory images from earlier Hunger Games, with my mother withdrawn and unreachable, with Namine emaciated and terrified. I bolt up screaming for my father to run as the mine explodes into a million deadly bits of light.  
Dawn is breaking through the windows. The Capitol has a misty, haunted air. My head aches and I must have bitten into the side of my cheek in the night. My tongue probes the ragged flesh and I taste blood.  
Slowly, I drag myself out of bed into the shower. I arbitrarily punch buttons on the control board and end up hopping from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold and steaming hot water assault me. Then I'm indulged in lemony foam that I have to scrape off with a heavy bristled brush. Oh, well. At least my blood is flowing.  
When I'm dried and moisturized with lotion, I find an outfit has been left for me at the front of the closet. Tight black pants, a long-sleeved burgundy tunic, and leather shoes. I put my hair in a single braid down my back. This is the first time since the morning of the reaping that I resemble myself. No fancy hair and clothes, no flaming capes. Just me. Looking like I could be headed for the woods. It calms me.  
Luxord didn't give us an exact time to meet for breakfast and no one has contacted me this morning, But I'm hungry so I head down to the dining room, hoping there will be food. I'm not dissapointed. While the table is empty, a long board off to the side has been laid with at least twenty dishes. A young man, an Avox, stands at attention by the spread. When I ask if I can serve myself, he nods assent. I load a plate with eggs, sausages, batter cakes covered in thick orange preserves, slices of pale purple melon. As I gorge myself, I watch the sun rise over the Capitol. I have a second plate of hot grain smothered in beef stew. Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking off bits and dipping them into hot chocolate, the way Sora did on the train.  
My mind wanders to my mother and Namine. They must be up. My mother getting their breakfast of mush. Namine milking her goat before school. Just two mornings ago, I was home. Can that be right? Yes, just two. And now how empty the house feels, even from a distance. What did they say last night about my fiery debut at the Games? Did it give them hope, or simply add to their terror when they saw the reality of twenty-four tributes circled together, knowing only one could live?  
Luxord and Sora come in, bid me good morning, fill their plates. It makes me irratated that Sora is wearing exactly the same outfit I am. I need to say something to Sazh. This twins act is going to blow up in our faces once the games begin. Surely, they must know this. Then I remember Luxord telling me to do exactly what the stylists tell me to do. If it was anyone but Sazh, I might be tempted to ignore him. But after last night's triumph, I don't have a lot of room to criticize his choices.  
I'm nervous about the training. There will be three days in which all the tributes practice together. On the last afternoon, we'll all each get a chance to perform in private before the Gamemakers. The thought of meeting the other tributes face-to-face makes me queasy. I turn to roll I have just taken from the basket over and over in my hands, but my appetite is gone.  
When Luxord has finished several platters of stew, he pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes a flask from his pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his elbows on the table. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately? Decide now."  
"Why would you coach us separately?" I ask.  
"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," says Luxord.  
I exchange a look with Sora. "I don't have a secret skills," he says. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels."  
I never thought about Sora eating the squirrels I shot. Somehow I always pictured the baker quietly going off and frying them up for himself. Not out of greed. But because town families usually eat expensive butcher meat. Beef and chicken and horse.  
"You can coach us together," I tell Luxord. Sora nods.  
"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do," says Luxord.  
"I can't do anything," says Sora. "Unless you count baking bread."  
"Sorry, I don't. Hermione. I already know you're handy with a knife," says Luxord.  
"Not really. But I can hunt," I say. "With a bow and arrow."  
"And you're good?" asks Luxord.  
I have to think about it. I've been putting food on the table for four years. That's no small task. I'm not as good as my father was, but he had more practice. I've better aim than Roxas, but I've had more practice. He's a genius with traps and snares. "I'm all right," I say.  
"She's excellent," says Sora. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer."  
This assessment of my skills from Sora takes me totally by surprise. First, that he ever noticed. Second, that he's talking me up. "What are you doing?" I ask him suspicously.  
"What are you doing? If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself," says Sora.  
I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing."  
"Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't," He shoots back.  
"He can wrestle," I tell Luxord. "He came in second in our school competiton last year, only after his brother."  
"What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?" says Sora in disgust.  
"There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" I can hear my voice rising in anger.  
"But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realize, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" bursts out Sora.  
"Oh, she meant you," I say with a wave of dismissal.  
"She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' She is," says Sora.  
That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that about me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain in Sora's eyes and know he isn't lying.  
Suddenly I'm behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I sound eleven year old when I speak. "But only because someone helped me."  
Sora's eyes flicker down to the roll in my hands, and I know he remembers that day, too. But he just shrugs. "People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you."  
"No more than you," I say.  
Sora rolls his eyes at Luxord. "She has no idea. The effect she can have." He runs his fingernail along the wood grain in the table, refusing to look at me.  
What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Sora. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing realationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!  
I glower at the roll, sure he meant to insult me.  
After about a minute of this, Luxord says, "Well, then. Well, well, well. Hermione, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"  
"I know a few basic snares," I mutter.  
"That may be significant in terms of food," says Luxord. "And, Sora, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" says Luxord.  
Sora and I nod.  
"One last thing. In public, I want you by each others side every minute," says Luxord. We both start to object, but Luxord slams his hand on the table. "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Lightning at the elevator at ten for training."  
I bite my lip and stalk back to my room, making sure Sora can hear the door slam. I sit on the bed, hating Luxord, hating Sora, hating myself for mentioning that day long ago in the rain.  
It's such a joke! Sora and I going along pretending to be friends! Talking up each others strengths, insisting the other take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at some point, we're going to have to knock it off and accept we're bitter adversaries. Which I'd be prepared to do right now if it wasn't for Luxord's stupid instruction that we stick together in training. It's my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn't have to coach us separately. But that didn't mean I wanted to do everything with Sora. Who, by the way, clearly doesn't want to be partnering up with me, either.  
I hear Sora's voice in my head. She has no idea. The effect she can have. Obviosly meant to demean me. Right? But a tiny part of me wonders if this is a compilment. That he meant I was appealing in some way. It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he paid to my hunting. And appearently, I have not been as oblivious him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.  
It's almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair again. Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety rising again. By the time I meet Lightning and Sora at the elevator, I catch myself biting my nails. I stop at once.  
The actual training rooms are below ground level of our building. With these elevators, the ride is less than a minute. The doors open into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses. Although it's not yet ten, we're the last ones to arrive. The other tributes are gathered in a tense circle. They each have a cloth square with their district number on it pinned to their shirts. While someone pins the number 12 on my back, I do a quick assessment. Sora and I are the only two dressed alike.  
As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall, athletic woman named Atala steps up and begins to explain the training schedule. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations. We will be free to travel from area to area as we choose, per our mentor's instructions. Some of the stations teach survival skills, other's fighting techniques. We are forbidden to engage in any combative exercise with another tribute. There are assistants on hand if we want to practice with a partner.  
When Atala begins to read down the list of the skill stations, my eyes can't help flitting around to the other tributes. It's the first time we've been assembled, on level ground in simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but overall my family's resourcefulness has given me an edge in that area. I stand straight, and while I'm thin, I'm strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined with the exertion it took to get them have given me a healthier body than most of those I see around me.  
The exceptions are the kids from the wealthier districts, the volunteers, the ones who have been fed and trained throughout their whole lives for this moment. The tributes from 1, 2, and 4 traditionally have this look about them. It's technically against the rules to train tributes before they reach the Capitol but it happens every year. In District 12, we call them the Career Tributes, or just the Careers. And like as not, the winner will be one of them.  
The slight advantage I held coming into the Training Center, my fiery entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence of my compitition. The other tributes were jealous of us, but not because we were amazing, because our stylists were. Now I see nothing but contempt in the glances of the Career Tributes. Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me. They project arrogance and brutality. When Atala releases us, they head straight to the deadliest looking weapons in the gym and handle them with ease.  
I'm thinking that it's lucky I'm a fast runner when Sora nudges my arm and I jump. He is still beside me, per Luxord's instructions. His expression is sober. "Where would you like to start?"  
I look around at the Career Tributes who are showing off, clearly trying to intimidate the field. Then at the others, the underfed, the incompetent, shakily having their first lessons with a knife or an ax.  
"Suppose we tie some knots," I say.  
"Right you are," says Sora. We cross to an empty station where the trainer seems pleased to have students. You get the feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Hunger Games hot spot. When he realizes I know something about snares, he shows us a simple, excellent trap that will leave a human competitor dangling by a leg from a tree. We concentrate on this one skill for an hour until both of us have mastered it. Then we move on to camouflage. Sora genuinely seems to enjoy this station, swirling a combination of mud and clay and berry juices around on his pale skin, weaving disguises from vines and leaves. The trainer who runs this camouflage station is full of enthusiasm at his work.  
"I do the cakes," he admits to me.  
"The cakes?" I ask. I've been preoccupied with watching the boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards. "What cakes?"  
"At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," he says.  
He means the ones they display in the windows. Fancy cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting. They're for birthdays and New Year's Day. When we're in the square, Namine always drags me over to admire them, although we'd never be able to afford one. There's little enough beauty in District 12, though, so I can hardly deny her this.  
I look more critically at the design on Sora's arm. The alternating pattern of light and dark suggests sunlight falling through the leaves in the woods. I wonder how he knows this, since I doubt he's ever been beyond the fence. Has he been able to pick this up from just that scraggly old apple tree in his backyard? Somehow the whole thing- his skill, those inaccesible cakes, the praise of the camouflage expert- annoys me.  
"It's lovely. If only you could frost someone to death," I say.  
"Don't be so superior. You can never tell what you'll find in the arena. Say it's actually a gigantic cake-" begins Sora.  
"Say we move on," I break in.  
So the next three days pass with Sora and me going quietly from station to station. We do pick up some valuable skills, from starting fires, to knife throwing, to making shelter. Despite Luxord's order to appear mediocre, Sora exceels in hand-to-hand combat, and I sweep the edible plants test without blinking an eye. We steer clear of archery and weightlifting though, wanting to save those for our private sessions.  
The Gamemakers appeared early on the first day. Twenty or so me and women dressed in deep purple robes. They sit in the elevated stands that surround the gymnasium, sometimes wandering about to watch us, jotting down notes, other times eating at the endless banquet that has been set for them, ignoring the lot of us. But do they seem to be keeping their eye on the District 12 tributes. Several times I've looked up to find one fixated on me. They consult with the trainers during our meals as well. We see them all gathered together when we come back.  
Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the gymnasium. Food is arranged on carts around the room and you serve yourself. The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice. Most of the other tributes sit alone, like lost sheep. No one says a word to us. Sora and I eat together, and since Luxord keeps dogging us about it, try to keep up a friendly conversation during the meals.  
It's not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking of the present unbearable. One day, Sora empties our breadbasket and points out how they have been careful to include types from the districts along with the refined bread of the Capitol. The fish-shapped loaf tinted green with seaweed from District 4. The crescent moon roll dotted with seeds from District 11. Somehow, although it's made from the same stuff, it looks a lot more appetizing than the ugly drop biscuits that are the standard fare at home.  
"And there you have it," says Sora, scooping the breads back in the basket.  
"You certainly know a lot," I say.  
"Only about bread," he says. "Okay, now laugh as if I've said something funny."  
We both give a somewhat convincing laugh and ignore the stares from around the room.  
"All right, I'll keep smiling pleasently and you talk," says Sora. It's wearing us both out, Luxord's direction to be friendly. Because ever since I slammed my door, there's been a chill in the air between us. But we have our orders.  
"Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?" I ask.  
"No, but it sounds fascinating," says Sora.  
I try and animate my face as I recall the event, a true story, in which I'd foolishly challenged a black bear over the right to a beehive. Sora laughs and asks questions right on cue. He's much better at this than I am.  
On the second day, while we're taking a shot at spear throwing, he whispers to me. "I think we have a shadow."  
I throw my spear, which I'm not to bad at actually, if I don't have to throw too far, and see the little girl from District 11 standing back a bit, watching us. She's the twelve-year-old, the one who reminded me so of Namine in stature. Up close she looks about ten. She has bright, blue eyes and satiny light skin and stands tilted up on her toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest sound. It's impossible not to think of a bird.  
I pick up another spear while Sora throws. "I think her name's Kairi," he says softly.  
I bite my lip. Kairi means sea. Kairi. Namine. Neither of them could tip the scale at seventy pounds soaking wet.  
"What can we do about it?" I ask him, more harshly than I intended.  
"Nothing to do," he says back. "Just making conversation."  
Now that I know she's there, it's hard to ignore the child. She slips up and joins us at different stations. Like me, she's clever with plants, climbs swiftly, and has good aim. She can hit the target every time with a slingshot. But what is a slingshot against a 220-pound male with a sword?  
Back on the District 12 floor, Luxord and Lightning grill us through breakfast and dinner about every moment of the day. What we did, who watched us, how the other tributes size up. Sazh and Arylon aren't around, so there's no one to add any sanity to the meals. Not that Luxord and Lightning are fighting anymore. Instead they seem to be of one mind, determined to whip us into shape. Full of endless directions about what we should do and not do in training. Sora is more patient, but I become fed up and surly.  
When we finally escape to bed on the second night, Sora mumbles, "Someone ought to get Luxord a drink."  
I make a sound that is somewhere between a snort and a laugh. Then catch myself. It's messing with my mind too much, trying to keep straight when we're supposedly friends and when we're not. At least when we get into the arena, I'll know where we stand. "Don't. Don't let's pretend when there's no one around."  
"All right, Hermione," he says tiredly. After that, we only talk in front of people.  
On the third day of training, they start to call us out of lunch for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. District by district, first the boy, then the girl tribute. As usual, District 12 is slated to go last. We linger in the dining room, unsure where else to go. No one comes back once they have left. As the room empties, the pressure to appear friendly lightens. By the time they call Kairi, we are left alone. We sit in silence until they summon Sora. He rises.  
"Remember what Luxord said about being sure to throw the weights." The words come out of my mouth without permission.  
"Thanks. I will," he says. "You...shoot straight."  
I nod. I don't know why I said anything at all. Although if I'm going to lose, I'd rather Sora win than the others. Better for our district, for my mother and Namine.  
After about fifteen minutes, they call my name. I smooth my hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the gymnasium. Instantly, I know I'm in trouble. They've been here too long, the Gamemakers. Sat through twenty-three other demonstrations. Had too much wine, most of them. Want more than anything to go home.  
There's nothing I can do but continue with the plan. I walk to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I've been itching to get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plastic and metal and materials I can't even name. Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it, and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder. There's a shooting range, but it's much too limited. Standard bull's-eyes and human silhouettes. I walk to the center of the gymnasium and pick my first target. The dummy used for knife practice. Even as I pull back on the bow I know something is wrong. The string is tighter than the one I use at home. The arrow's more rigid. I miss the dummy by a couple of inches and lose what little attention I had been commanding. For a moment, I'm humiliated, then I head back to the bull's-eye. I shoot again and again until I get the feel of these new weapons.  
Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial position and skewer the dummy right through the heart. Then I sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing, And the bag splits open as it slams to the ground. Without pausing, I shoulder-roll foward come up on one knee, and send an arrow into one of the hanging lights high above the gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks burst from the fixture.  
It's excellent shooting. I turn to the Gamemakers. A few are nodding approval, but the majority of them are fixated on a roast pig that has just arrived at their banquet table.  
Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they don't even have the decency to pay attention to me. That I'm being upstaged by a dead pig. My heart starts to pound, I can feel my face burning. Without thinking, I pull an arrow from my quiver and send it straight at the Gamemakers' table. I hear shouts of alarm as people stumble back. The arrow skewers the apple in the pigs mouth and pins it to the wall behind it. Everyone stares at me in disbelief.  
"Thank you for your consideration," I say. Then I give a slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without being dismissed.  



	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 As I stride toward the elevator, I fling my bow to one side and my quiver to the other. I brush past the gaping Avoxes who guard the elevators and hit the number twelve button with my fist. The doors slide together and I zip upward. I actually make it back to my floor before the tears start running down my cheeks. I can hear the others calling me from my sitting room, but I fly down the hall into my room, bolt the door, and fling myself onto my bed. Then I really begin to sob.  
Now I've done it! Now I've ruined everything! If I'd stood even a ghost of a chance, it vanished when I sent that arrow flying at the Gamemakers. What will they do to me now? Arrest me? Execute me? Cut my tongue and turn me into an Avox so I can wait on the future tributes of Panem? What was I thinking, shooting at the Gamemakers? Of course, I wasn't, I was shooting at that apple because I was so angry at being ignored. I wasn't trying to kill one of them. If I were, they'd be dead!  
Oh, what does it matter? It's not like I was going to win the Games anyway. Who cares what they do to me? What really scares me is what they might do to my mother and Namine, how my family might suffer now because of my impulsiveness. Will they take their few belongings, or send my mother to prison and Namine to the community home, or kill them? They wouldn't kill them would they? Why not? What do they care?  
I should have stayed and apologized. Or laughed, like it was a big joke. Then maybe I would have found some leniency. But instead I stalked out of the place in the most disrespectful manner possible.  
Luxord and Lightning are knocking on my door. I shout for them to go away and eventually they do. It takes at least an for me to cry myself out. Then I just lie curled up on the bed, stroking the silken sheets, watching the sun set over the artificial candy Capitol.  
At first, I expect guards to come for me. But as time passes, it seems less likely. I calm down. They still need a girl tribute from District 12, don't they? If the Gamemakers want to punish me, they can do it publicly. Wait until I'm in the arena and sic starving wild animals on me. You can bet they'll make sure I don't have a bow and arrow to defend myself.  
Before that though, they'll give me a score so low, no one in their right mind would sposor me. That's what will happen tonight. Since the training isn't open to viewers, the Gamemakers announce a score for each player. It gives the audience a starting place for the betting that will continue throughout the Games. The number, which is between one and twelve, one being irredemably bad and twelve being unattainably high, signifies the promise of the tributes. The mark is not a guarantee of which person will win. It's only an indication of the potential a tribute showed in training. Often, because of the variables in the actual arena, high-scoring tributes go down almost immediantly. And, a few years ago, the boy who won the Games only recieved a three. Still, the scores can help or hurt an individual tribute in terms of sposorship. I had been hoping my shooting skills might give me a six or seven, even if I'm particularly powerful. Now I'm sure I'll have the lowest score of the twenty-four. If no one sposors me, my odds of staying alive decrease to almost zero.  
When Lightning taps on the door to call me to dinner, I decide I may as well go. The scores will be televised tonight. It's not like I can hide what happened forever. I go to the bathroom and wash my face, but it's still red and splotchy.  
Everyone's waiting at the table, even Sazh and Arylon. I wish the stylist hadn't shown up because for some reason, I don't like the idea of dissappointing them. It's as if I've thrown away all good work they did on the opening ceremonies without a thought. I avoid looking at anyone as I take tiny spoonfuls of fish soup. The saltiness reminds me of my tears.  
The adults begin some chitchat about the weather forecast, and I let my eyes meet Sora's. He raises his eyebrows. A question. What happened? I just give my head a small shake. Then, as they're serving the main course, I hear Luxord say, "Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?"  
Sora jumps in. "I don't know that it mattered. By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some sort of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."  
That makes me feel a bit better. It's not like Sora attacked the Gamemakers, but at least he was provoked, too.  
"And you, sweetheart?" says Luxord.  
Somehow Luxord calling me sweetheart ticks me off enough that I'm at least able to speak. "I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."  
Everyone stops eating. "You what?" The horror in Lightning's voice confirms my worse suspicions.  
"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Sora said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just...I lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their roast pig's mouth!" I say defiantly.  
"And what did they say?" says Sazh carefully.  
"Nothing. Or I don't know. I walked out after that," I say.  
"Without being dismissed," gasps Lightning.  
"I dismissed myself," I said. I remember how I promised Namine that I really would try to win and I feel like a ton of coal has dropped on me.  
"Well, that's that," says Luxord. Then he butters a roll.  
"Do you think they'll arrest me?" I ask.  
"Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage," says Luxord.  
"What about my family?" I say. "Will they punish them?"  
"Don't think so. Wouldn't make much sense. See, they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can't since it's secret, so it'd be a waste of effort," says Luxord. "More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena."  
"Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyway," says Sora.  
"Very true," says Luxord. And I realize the impossible has happened. They have actually cheered me up. Luxord picks up a pork chop with his fingers, which makes Lightning frown, and dunks it in his wine. He rips off a hunk of meat and starts to chuckle. "What were their faces like?"  
I can feel the edges of my mouth tilting up. "Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them." An image pops into my mind. "One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch."  
Luxord guffaws and we all start laughing except Lightning, although even she is suppressing a smile. "Well, it serves them right. It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you." Then her eyes dart around as if she's said something totally outrageous. "I'm sorry, but that's what I think," she says to no one in particular.  
"I'll get a very bad score," I say.  
"Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy," said Arylon.  
"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," says Sora. "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot."  
I grin at him and realize that I'm starving. I cut off a piece of pork, dunk it in mashed potatoes, and start eating. It's okay. My family is safe. And if they are safe, no real harm has been done.  
After dinner, we go to the sitting room to watch the scores announced on television. First they show a photo of the tribute, then flash their score below it. The Carrer Tributes naturally get in the eight-to-ten range. Most of the other players average a five. Surprisingly, little Kairi comes up with a seven. I don't know what she showed the judges, but she's so tiny it must have been impressive.  
District 12 comes up last as usual. Sora pulls an eight so at least a couple of the Gamemakers must have been watching him. I dig my fingernails into my palms as my face comes up, expecting the worst. Then they're flashing the number eleven on the screen.  
Eleven!  
Lightning Trinket lets out a squeal, and everybody is slapping me on the back and cheering and congratulating me. But it doesn't seem real.  
"There must be a mistake. How...how could that happen?" I ask Luxord.  
"Guess they liked your temper," he says. "They've got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat."  
"Hermione, the girl who was on fire," says Sazh and gives me a hug. "Oh, wait until you see your interview dress."  
"More flames?" I ask.  
"Of a sort," he says mischievously.  
Sora and I congratulate each other, another awkward moment. We've both done well, but what does that mean for the other? I escape to my room as quickly as possible and burrow down under the covers. The stress of the day, particularly the crying, has worn me out. I drift off, reprieved, relieved, and with the number eleven still flashing behind my eyelids.  
At dawn, I lie in the bed for a while, watching the sun come up on a beautiful morning. It's Sunday. A day off at home. I wonder if Roxas is in the woods yet. Usually we devote all of Sunday to stocking up for the week. Rising early, hunting and gathering, then trading at the Hob. I think of Roxas without me. Both of us can hunt alone, but we're better as a pair. Particularly if we're trying for bigger game. But also in the littler things, having a partner lightened the load, could even make the arduous task of filling my family's table enjoyable.  
I had been struggling along on my own for about six months when I first ran into Roxas in the woods. It was a Sunday in October, the air cool and pungent with dying things. I'd spent the morning competing with the squirrels for nut and the slightly warmer afternoon wading in shallow ponds harvesting katniss. The only meat I'd shot was a squirrel that had practically run over my toes in its quest for acorns, but the animals would still be afoot when the snow buried my other food sources. Having strayed father afield than usual, I was hurrying back home, lugging my burlap sacks, when I came across a dead rabbit. It was hanging by its neck in a thin wire a foot above my head. About fifteen yards away was another. I recognized the twitch-up snares because my father had used them. When the prey is caught, it's yanked into the air out of reach of other hungry animals. I'd been trying to use snares all summer with no success, so I couldn't help dropping my sacks to examine this one. My fingers were just on the wire above one of the rabbits when a voice rang out. "That's dangerous."  
I jumped back several feet as Roxas materialized from behind a tree. He must have been watching me the whole time. He was only fourteen, but he cleared six feet and was as good an adult to me. I'd seen him around the Seam and at school. And one other time. He'd lost his father in the same blast that killed mine. In January, I'd stood by while he recieved his medal of valor in the Justice Building, another oldest child with no father. I remembered his two little brothers clutching his mother, a woman whose swollen belly announced she was just days away from giving birth.  
"What's your name?" he said, coming over and disengaging the rabbit from the snare. He had another three hanging from his belt.  
"Hermione," I said, barely audible.  
"Well, Hermy, stealing's punishable by death, or hadn't you heard?" he said.  
"Hermione," I said louder. "And I wasn't stealing it. I just wanted to look at your snare. Mine never catch anything."  
He scowled at me, not convinced. "So where'd you get the squirrel?"  
"I shot it." I pulled my bow off my shoulder. I was still using the small version my father had made me, but I'd been practicing with the full-size one when I could. I was hoping that by spring I might be able to bring down some bigger game.  
Roxas's eyes fastened on the bow. "Can I see that?"  
I handed it over. "Just remember, stealing's punishable by death."  
That was the first time I ever saw him smile. It transformed him from someone menacing to someone you wished you knew. But it took several months before I returned that smile.  
We talked hunting then. I told him I might be able to get him a bow if I had something to trade. Not food. I wanted knowledge. I wanted to set my own snares that caught a belt of fat rabbits in one day. He agreed something might be worked out. As the seasons went by, we grudgingly began to share our knowledge, our weapons, our secret places that were thick with wild plums or turkeys. He taught me snares and fishing. I showed him what plants to eat and eventually gave him one of our precious bows. And then one day, without either of us saying it, we became a team. Dividing the work and the spoils. Making sure that both our families had food.  
Roxas gave me a sense of security I'd lacked since my father's death. His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in the woods. I became a much better hunter when I didn't have to look over my shoulder, when someone was watching my back. But he turned into so much more than a hunting partner. He became my confidant, someone with whom I could share thoughts I could never voice inside the fence. In exchange, he trusted me with his. Being out in the woods with Roxas...sometimes I was actually happy.  
I call him my friend, but in the last year it seemed too casual a word for what Roxas is to me. A pang of longing shoots through my chest. If only he was with me now! But, of course, I don't want that. I don't want him in the arena where he'd be dead in a few days. I just..I just miss him. And I hate being so alone. Does he miss me? He must.  
I think of the eleven flashing under my name last night. I know exactly what he'd say to me. "Well, there's some room for improvement there." And then he'd give me a smile and I'd return it without hesitating now.  
I can't help comparing what I have with Roxas to what I'm pretending to have with Sora. How I never question Roxas's motives while I do nothing but doubt the latter's. It's not a fair comparison really. Roxas and I were thrown together by a mutual need to survive. Sora and I know the other's survival means our own death. How do you side-step that?  
Lightning's knocking at the door, reminding me there's another "big, big, big day!" ahead. Tommorow night will be our televised interviews. I guess the whole team will have their hands full readying us for that.  
I get up and take a quick shower, being a bit more careful about the buttons I hit, and head down to the dining room. Sora, Lightning, and Luxord are huddled around the table talking in hushed voices. That seems odd, but hunger wins out over curiosity and I load up my plate with breakfast before I join them.  
The stew's made with tender chunks of lamb and dried plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I've shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one's talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth. "So, what's going on? You're coaching us on the interviews today, right?"  
"That's right," says Luxord.  
"You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and eat at the same time," I say.  
"Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," says Luxord.  
"What's that?" I ask. I'm not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes in the last bit of strategy I remember.  
Luxord shrugs. "Sora has asked to be coached seperately."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 Betrayal. That's the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first. Between Sora and me. And trust has not been part of the agreement. We're tributes. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Luxord know my hunting skills...was there some part of me that couldn't help trusting him?  
On the other hand, I'm relieved that we can stop the pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we'd foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Sora's decision-and I suspect it had to do with my outperforming him in training-I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he's finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies, the better.  
"Good," I say. "So what's the schedule?"  
"You'll each have four hours with Lightning for presentation and four with me for content," says Luxord. "You start with Lightning, Hermione."  
I can't imagine what Lightning will have to teach me that could take four hours, but she's got me working down to the last minute. We go to my room and she puts me in a full-length gown and high-heeled shoes, not the ones I'll be wearing for the acual interview, and instructs me on walking. The shoes are the worst part. I've never worn high heels and can't get used to essentially wobbling around on the balls of my feet. But Lightning runs around in them full-time, and I'm determined that if she can do it, so can I. The dress poses another problem. It keeps tangling around my shoes so, of course, I hitch it up, and then Lightning swoops down on me like a hawk, smacking my hands and yelling, "Not above the ankle!" When I finally conquer walking, there's still sitting, posture-appearently I have a tendency to duck my head-eye contact, hand gestures, and smiling. Smiling is mostly about smiling more. Lightning makes me say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my cheeks are twitching from overuse.  
"Well, that's the best I can do," Lightning says with a sigh. "Just remember, Hermione, you want the audience to like you."  
"And you don't think they will?" I ask.  
"Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don't you save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among friends," says Lightning.  
"They're betting on how long I'll live!" I burst out. "They're not my friends!"  
"Well, try and pretend!" snaps Lightning. Then she composes herself and beams at me. "See, like this. I'm smiling at you even though you're aggravating me."  
"Yes, it feels very convincing," I say. "I'm going to eat." I kick off my heels and stomp down to the dining room, hiking my skirt up to my thighs.  
Sora and Luxord seem in pretty good moods, so I'm thinking the content session should be an improvement over the morning. I couldn't be more wrong. After lunch, Luxord takes me into the sitting room, directs me to the couch, and then just frowns at me for a while.  
"What?" I finally ask.  
"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he says. "How we're going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you're shining like a star. You volunteered to save your sister. Sazh made you look unforgettable. You've got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors," says Luxord.  
Having watched the tribute interviews all my life, I know there's truth to what he's saying. If you appeal to the crowd, either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, you gain favor.  
"What's Sora's approach? Or am I not allowed to ask?" I say.  
"Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally," says Luxord. "Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across more as sullen and hostile."  
"I do not!" I say.  
"Please. I don't know where you pulled that cheery, wavy girl on the chariot from, but I haven't seen her before or since," says Luxord.  
"And you've given me so many reasons to be cheery," I counter.  
"But you don't have to please me. I'm not going to sponsor you. So pretend I'm the audience," says Luxord. "Delight me."  
"Fine!" I snarl. Luxord takes the role of the interviewer and I try to answer his question in a winning fashion. But I can't. I'm too angry with Luxord for what he said and that I even have too answer the questions. All I can think is how unjust the whole thing is, the Hunger Games. Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate? The longer the interview goes on, the more my fury seems to rise to the surface, until I'm literally spitting out answers at him.  
"All right, enough," he says. "We've got to find another angle. Not only are you hostile, I don't know anything about you. I've asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about you, Hermione."  
"But I don't want them to! They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past!" I say.  
"Then lie! Makes something up!" says Luxord.  
"I'm not good at lying," I say.  
"Well, you better learn fast. You've got about as much charm as a dead slug," says Luxord.  
Ouch. That hurts. Even Luxord must know he's been too harsh because his voice softens. "Here's an idea. Try acting humble."  
"Humble," I echo.  
"That you can't believe a little girl from District Twelve has done this well. The whole things been more than could have dreamed of. Talk about Sazh's clothes. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush."  
The next hours are agonizing. At once, it's clear I cannot gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don't have the arrogance. Appearently, I'm too "vulnerable" for ferocity. I'm not witty. Funny. Sexy. Or mysterious.  
By the end of the session, I am no one at all. Luxord started drinking around witty, and a nasty edge has crept in his voice. "I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them."  
I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outrageous number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then taking out my anger at Luxord, at the Hunger Games, at every living being in the Capitol, both now and then. For her, justice must finally be happening. At least my death will help pay for the life of the boy in the woods.  
But instead of fleeing the room, the girl closes the door behind her and goes to the bathroom. She comes back with a damp cloth and wipes my face gently then cleans the blood from a broken plate off my hands. Why is she doing this? Why am I letting her?  
"I should have tried to save you," I whisper.  
She shakes her head. Does this mean we were right to stand by? That she has forgiven me?  
"No, it was wrong," I say.  
She taps her lips with her fingers then points to my chest. I think she means that I would just ended up an Avox, too. Probably would have. An Avox or dead.  
I spend the next hour helping the redheaded girl clean the room. When all the garbage has been dropped down a disposal and the food cleaned away, she turns down my bed. I crawl in between the sheets like a five-year-old and let her tuck me in. Then she goes. I want her to stay until I fall asleep. To be there when I wake up. I want the protection of this girl, even though she never had mine.  
In the morning, it's not the girl but my prep team who are hanging over me. My lessons with Lightning and Luxord are over. This day belongs to Sazh. He's my last hope. Maybe he can make me look so wonderful, no one will care what comes out of my mouth.  
The team works on me until late afternoon, turning my skin to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on my arms, painting flame designs on my twenty perfect nails. Then Venia goes to work on my hair, weaving strands of red into a pattern that begins at my left ear, wraps around my head, and then falls in one braid down my right shoulder. They erase my face with a layer of pale makeup and draw my features back out. Huge dark eyes, full red lips, lashes that throw off bits of light when I blink. Finally, they cover my entire body in a powder that makes me shimmer in gold dust.  
Then Sazh enters with what I assume is my dress, but I can't really see it because it's covered. "Close your eyes," he orders.  
I can feel the silken inside as they slip it down over my naked body, then the weight. It must be forty pounds. I clutch Oerba's hand as I blindly step into my shoes, glad to find they are at least two inches lower than the pair Lightning had me practice in. There's some adjusting and fidgeting. Then silence.  
"Can I open my eyes?" I ask.  
"Yes," says Sazh. "Open them."  
The creature standing before me in the full-length mirror has come from another world. Where skin shimmers and eyes flash and appearently they make their clothes from jewels. Because my dress, oh, my dress is covered in reflective precious gems, red and yellow and white with bits of blue that accent the tips of the flame design. The slightest movement gives the impression I am engulfed in tongues of fire.  
I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun.  
For a while, we all just stare at me. "Oh, Sazh," I finally whisper. "Thank you."  
"Twirl for me," he says. I hold out my arms and spin in a circle. The prep team screams in admiration.  
Sazh dismisses the team and has me move around in the dress and shoes, which are infinitely more manageable than Lightning's. The dress hangs in such a way that I don't have to lift the skirt when I walk, leaving me with one less thing to worry about.  
"So, all ready for the interview then?" asks Sazh. I can see by his expression that he's been talking to Luxord. That he knows how dreadful I am.  
"I'm awful. Luxord called me a dead slug. No matter what we tried, I couldn't do it. I just can't be one of those people he wants me to be," I say.  
Sazh thinks about this a moment. "Why don't you just be yourself?"  
"Myself? That's no good either. Luxord says I'm sullen and hostile," I say.  
"Well you are...around Luxord," says Sazh with a grin. "I don't find you so. The prep team adores you. You even won over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can't stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your spirit."  
My spirit. This is a new thought. I'm not sure exactly what it means, but it suggests I'm a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It's not as if I'm never friendly. Okay, maybe I don't go around loving everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by, but I do care for some people.  
Sazh takes my icy hands in his warm ones. "Suppose, when you answer the questions, you think you're addressing a friend back home. Who would your best friend be?" asks Sazh.  
"Roxas," I say instantly. "Only it doesn't make sense, Sazh. I would never be telling Roxas those things about me. He already knows them."  
"What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?" asks Sazh.  
Of all the people I've met since I left home, Sazh is by far my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn't disappointed me yet. "I think so, but-"  
"I'll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You'll be able to look right at me. When you're asked a question, find me, and answer it as honestly as possible," says Sazh.  
"Even if what I think is horrible?" I ask. Because it might be, really.  
"Especially if what you think is horrible," says Sazh. "You'll try it?"  
I nod. It's a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at.  
Too soon it's time to go. The interviews take place on a stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I leave my room, it will be only minutes until I'm in front of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem.  
As Sazh turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. "Sazh..." I'm completely overcome with stage fright.  
"Remember, they already love you," he says gently. "Just be yourself."  
We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the elevator. Arylon and her gang have been hard at work. Sora looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it's a relief not to be dressed identically. Luxord and Lightning are all fancied up for the occassion. I avoid Luxord, but accept Lightning's compliments. Lightning can be tiresome and clueless, but she's not destructive like Luxord.  
When the elevator opens, the other tributes are being lined up to take the stage. All twenty-four of us sit in a big arc throughout the interviews. I'll be last, or second to last since the girl tributes precedes the boy from each district. How I wish I could be first and get the whole thing out of the way! Now I'll have to listen to how witty, funny, humble, fierce, and charming everybody else is before I go up. Plus, the audience will start to get bored, just as the Gamemakers did. And I can't exactly shoot an arrow into the crowd to get their attention.  
Right before we parade onto the stage, Luxord comes up behind Sora and me and growls, "Remember, you're still a happy pair. So act like it."  
What? I thought we abandoned that when Sora asked for seperate coaching. But I guess that was a private, not a public thing. Anyway, there's not much chance for interaction now, as we walk single-file to our seats and take our places.  
Just stepping on the stage makes my breathing rapid and shallow. I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples. It's a relief to get in my chair, because between the heels and my legs shaking, I'm afraid I'll trip. Although evening is falling, the City Circle is brighter than a summer's day. An elevated seating unit has been set up for prestigous guests, with the stylists commanding the front row. The cameras will turn to them when the crowd is reacting to their handiwork. A large balcony off a building to the right has been reserved for the Gamemakers. Television crews have claimed most of the other balconies. But the City Circle and the avenues that feed into it are completely packed with people. Standing room only. At homes and community halls around the country, every television set is turned on. Every citizen of Panem is tuned in. There will be no blackouts tonight.  
Caesar Flickerman, the man who has hosted the interviews for more than forty years, bounces onto the stage. It's a little scary because his appearance has been virtually unchanged during all that time. Same face under a coating of pure white makeup. Same hairstyle that he dyes a different color for each Hunger Games. Same ceremonial suit, midnight blue dotted with a thousand tiny electric bulbs that twinkle like stars. They do surgery in the Capitol, to make people appear younger and thinner. In District 12, looking old is something of an acheivement since so many people die early. You see an elderly person, you want to congratulate them on their longevity, ask the secret of our survival. A plump person is envied because they aren't scraping by like the majority of us. But here it is different. Wrinkles aren't desirable. A round belly isn't a sign of success.  
This year, Caesar's hair is powder blue and his eyelids and lips are coated in the same hue. He looks freakish but less frightening tha he did last year when his color was crimson and he seemed to be bleeding. Caesar tells a few jokes to warm up the audience but then gets down to business.  
The girl tribute from District 1, looking provocative in a see-through gold gown, steps up the center of the stage to join Caesar for her interview. You can tell her mentor didn't have any trouble coming up with an angle for her. With that flowing blue hair, blue eyes, her body tall and lush...she's sexy all the way.  
Each interview only lasts three minutes. Then a buzzer goes off and the next tribute is up. I'll say this for Caesar, he really does his best to make the tributes shine. He's friendly, tries to set the nervous ones at ease, laughs at lame jokes, and can turn a weak response into a memorable one by the way he reacts.  
I sit like a lady, the way Lightning showed me, as the districts slip by. 2, 3, 4. Everyone seems to be playing up some angle. The monstrous boy from District 2 is a ruthless killing machine. The fox-faced girl from District 5 sly and elusive. I spotted Sazh as soon as he took his place, but even his presence cannot relax me. 8, 9, 10. The crippled boy from 10 is very quiet. My palms are sweating like crazy, but the jeweled dress isn't absorbent and they skid right of if I try to dry them. 11.  
Kairi, who is dressed in a gossamer gown complete with wings, flutters her way to Caesar. A hush falls over the crowd at the sight of this magical wisp of a tribute. Caesar's very sweet with her, complimenting her seven in training, an excellent score for one so small. When he asks her what her greatest strength in the arena will be, she doesn't hesitate. "I'm very hard to catch," she says in a tremolous voice. "And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me count."  
"I wouldn't in a million years," says Caesar encouragingly.  
The boy tribute from District 11, Riku, has the same light skin as Kairi, but the resemblance stops there. He's one of the giants, probably six and a half feet tall and built like and ox, but I noticed he rejected the invitation from the Career Tributes to join their crowd. Instead he's been very solitary, speaking to no one, showing little interest in training. Even so, he scored a ten and it's not hard to imagine he impressed the Gamemakers. He ignores Caesar's attempts at banter and answers with a yes or no or just remains silent.  
If only I was his size, I could get away with sullen and hostile and it would be just fine! I bet half the sponsors are at least considering him. If I had any money, I'd bet on him myself.  
And then they're calling Hermione Everdeen, and I feel myself, as if in a dream, standing and making my way center stage. I shake Caesar's outstretched hand, and he has the good grace not to immeadiantly wipe his off on his suit.  
"So, Hermione, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What's impressed you most since you arrived here?" asks Caesar.  
What? What did he say? It's as if the words make no sense.  
My mouth has gone as dry as sawdust. I desprately find Sazh in the crowd and lock eyes with him. I imagine the words coming from his lips. "What's impressed you most since you arrived here?" I rack my brain for something that made me happy here. Be honest, I think. Be honest.  
"The lamb stew," I get out.  
Caesar laughs, and vaguely I realize some of the audience has joined in.  
"The one with the dried plums?" asks Caesar. I nod. "Oh I eat it by the bucketful." He turns sideways to the audience in horror, hand on his stomach. "It doesn't show, does it?" They shout reassurances to him and applaude. This is what I mean about Caesar. He tries to help you out.  
"Now, Hermione," he says confidentially, "When you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?"  
Sazh raises one eyebrow at me. Be honest. "You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?" I ask.  
Big laugh. A real one from the audience.  
"Yes. Start then," says Caesar.  
Sazh, my friend, I should tell him anyway. "I thought Sazh was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it. I can't believe I was wearing it. I can't believe I'm wearing this either." I lift up my skirt to spread it out. "I mean, look at it!"  
As the audience oohs and ahs, I see Sazh make the tiniest circular motion with his finger. But I know what he's saying. Twirl for me.  
I spin in a circle once and the reaction is immediante.  
"Oh, do that again!" says Caesar, and so I lift up my arms and spin around and around letting the skift fly out, letting the dress engulf me in flames. The audience breaks into cheers. When I stop, I clutch Caesar's arm.  
"Don't stop!" he says.  
"I have to, I'm dizzy!" I'm also giggling, which I think I've done maybe never in my lifetime. But the nerves and spinning have gotten to me.  
Caesar wraps a protective arm around me. "Don't worry, I've got you. Can't have you following in your mentor's footsteps."  
Everyone's hooting as the cameras find Luxord, who is by now famous for his head-dive at the reaping, and he waves them away good-naturedly and points back to me.  
"It's all right," Caesar reassures the crowd. "She safe with me. So, how about that training score. E-le-ven. Give us a hint what happened in here."  
I glance at the Gamemakers on the balcony and bite my lip. "Um...all I can say, is I think it was a first."  
The cameras are right on the Gamemakers, who are chuckling and nodding.  
"You're killing us," says Caesar as if in actual pain. "Details. Details."  
I address the balcony. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?"  
The Gamemaker who fell in the punch bowl shouts out, "She's not!"  
"Thank you," I say. "Sorry. My lips are sealed."  
"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping," says Caesar. His mood is quieter now. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"  
No. No, not all of you. But maybe Sazh. I don't think I'm imagining the sadness on his face. "Her name's Namine. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."  
You coud hear a pin drop in the City Circle now.  
"What did she to say to you? After the reaping?" Caesar asks.  
Be honest. Be honest. I swallow hard. "She asked me to try really hard to win." The audience is frozen, hanging on my every word.  
"And what did you say?" prompts Caesar gently.  
But instead of warmth, I feel an icy rigidity take over my body. My muscles tense as they do before a kill. When I speak, my voice seems to have dropped an octave. "I swore I would."  
"I bet you did," says Caesar, giving me a squeeze. The buzzer goes off. "Sorry we're out of time. Best of luck, Hermione Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve."  
The applause continues long after I'm seated. I look to Sazh for reassurance. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up.  
I'm still in a daze for the first part of Sora's interview. He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker's son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. "Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" he asks Caesar, and then there's a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I'm coming back into focus when Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home.  
Sora hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head.  
"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar.  
Sora sighs. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."  
Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they can relate to.  
"She have another fellow?" asks Caesar.  
"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," says Sora.  
"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" says Caesar encouragingly.  
I don't think it's going to work out. Winning...won't help in my case," says Sora.  
"Why ever not?" says Caesar, mystified.  
Sora blushes beet red and stammers out. "Because...because...she came here with me."


	10. Chapter 10

Part II-The Games-  
Chapter 10 For a moment, the camreas hold on Sora's downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of suprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, holping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me.  
"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar, and there's a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries.  
"It's not good," agrees Sora.  
"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," says Caesar. "She didn't know?"  
Sora shakes his head. "Not until now."  
I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on my cheeks is unmistakable.  
"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams assent. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Hermione Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Sora Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."  
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Sora has absolutely wiped the rest of us off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles down, he chokes out I quiet "Thank you" and returns to his seat. We stand for the anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Sora and me, seperated by a few feet that in the viewers' heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.  
But I know better.  
After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Center lobby and onto the elevators. I make sure to veer into a car that does not contain Sora. The crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have only each other for company. No one speaks. My elevator stops to deposit four tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor. Sora has only just stepped from his car when I slam my palms into his chest. He loses balance and crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn tips and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Sora lands in the shards, and blood immediantly flows from his hands.  
"What was that for?" he says, aghast.  
"You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!" I shout at him.  
Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Lightning, Luxord, Sazh, and Arylon.  
"What's going on?" says Lightning, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Did you fall?"  
"After she shoved me," says Sora as Lightning and Sazh help him up.  
Luxord turns on me. "Shoved him?"  
"This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kinda fool in front of the entire country?" I answer.  
"It was my idea," says Sora, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his palms. "Luxord just helped me with it."  
"Yes, Luxord is very helpful. To you!" I say.  
"You are a fool," Luxord says in disgust. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never acheive on your own."  
"He made me look weak!" I say.  
"He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!" says Luxord.  
"But we're not star-crossed lovers!" I say.  
Luxord grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. "Who cares? It's all a big show. It's all how you're percieved. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"  
The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head.  
Sazh comes over and puts his arm around me. "He's right, Hermione."  
I don't know what to think. "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid."  
"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real," says Arylon.  
"She's just worried about her boyfriend," says Sora gruffly, tossing away a bloody piece of the urn.  
My cheeks burn again at the thought of Roxas. "I don't have a boyfriend."  
"Whatever," says Sora. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he see's it. Besides you didn't say you loved me. So what does it matter?"  
The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I'm torn now between thinking I've been used and thinking I've been given an edge. Luxord is right. I survived my interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling dress. Giggling. The only moment of any substance I had was when I talked about Namine. Compare that with Riku, his silent, deadly power, and I'm forgettable. Silly and sparkly and forgettable. No, not entirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training.  
But now Sora has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers. And if the audience really thinks we're in love...I remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers. Luxord is right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I'm worried that I didn't react properly.  
"After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" I ask.  
"I did," says Arylon. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush."  
The others chime in, agreeing.  
"You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have to sponsors lined up around the block," says Luxord.  
I'm embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Sora. "I'm sorry I shoved you."  
"Doesn't matter," he shrugs. "Although it's technically illegal."  
"Are your hands okay?" I ask.  
"They'll be all right," he says.  
In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinner waft in from the dining room. "Come on, let's eat," says Luxord. We all follow him to the table and take our places. But then Sora is bleeding too heavily, and Arylon leads him off for medical treatment. We start the cream and rose-petal soup without them. By the time we've finished, they're back. Sora's hands are wrapped in bandages. I can't help feeling guilty. Tomorrow we will be in the arena. He has done me a favor and I have answered with an injury. Will I never stop owing him?  
After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room. I seem frilly and shallow, twirling and giggling in my dress, although the others assure me I'm charming. Sora actually is charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Sazh's hands, desirable by Sora's confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable.  
When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush falls from the room. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual Games don't start until ten because Sora and I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will travel to the arena that has been prepared for this year's Games.  
I know Luxord and Lightning will not be going with us. As soon as they leave here, they'll be at the Games Headquaters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors, working out a strategy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Sazh and Arylon will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena. Still final good-byes must be said here.  
Lightning takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her priveledge to sponsor. And then, because it's Lightning and she's appearently required by law to say something awful, she adds "I wouldn't be at all suprised if I finally get promoted to a descent district next year!"  
Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome with either the emotional parting or the possible improvement of her fortunes.  
Luxord crosses his arms and looks us both over.  
"Any final words of advice?" asks Sora.  
"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You're neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water," he says. "Got it?"  
"And after that?" I ask.  
"Stay alive," says Luxord. It's the same advice he gave us on the train, but he's not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say?  
When I head to my room, Sora lingers to talk to Arylon. I'm glad. Whatever strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are drawn back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her name. I should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it out. But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her.  
I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, the scent of beauty from my body. All that remains of the design-team's efforts are the flames on my nails. I decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience. Hermione, the girl who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to come.  
I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and cimb into bed. It takes me about five seconds to realize I'll never fall asleep. And I need sleep desperately because in the arena every moment I give into fatigue will be an invitation to death.  
It's no good. Onehour, two, three pass, and my eyelids refuse to get heavy. I can't stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain I'll be thrown into. Desert? Swamp? A frigid wasteland? Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford some means of concealment and food and shelter. Often there are trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them. But what will the climate be like? What traps have the Gamemakers hidden to liven up the slower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes...  
The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes me. Finally, I am too restless to even stay in bed. I pace the floor, heart beating too fast, breathing to short. My room feels like a prison cell. If I don't get air soon, I'm going to start to throw things again. I run down the hall to the door to the roof. It's not only unlocked but ajar. Perhaps someone forgot to close it, but it doesn't matter. The energy fields enclosing the roof prevents any desperate form of escape. And I'm not looking to escape, only to fill my lungs with air. I want to see the sky and the moon on the last night that no one will be hunting me.  
The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feet reach its tiles surfaced I see his silhouette, black against the lights that shine endlessly against the Capitol. There's quite a commotion going on down the streets, music and singing and car horns, none of which I could hear through the thick glass window panels in my room. I could slip away now, without him noticing me; he wouldn't hear me over the din. But the night air's so sweet, I can't bear returning to that stuffy cage of a room. And what difference does it make? Whether we speak or not?  
My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I'm only a yard behind him when I say, "You should be getting some sleep."  
He starts but doesn't turn. I can see him give his head a slight shake. "I didn't want to miss the party. It's for us, after all."  
I come up beside him and lean over the edge of the rail. The wide streets are full of dancing people. I squint to make out their tiny figures in one more detail. "Are they in costumes?"  
"Who could tell?" Sora answers. "With all the crazy clothes they wear here. Couldn't sleep, either?"  
"Couldn't turn my mind off," I say.  
"Thinking about your family?" he asks.  
"No," I admit a bit guiltily. "All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course." In the light from below, I can see his face now, the awkward way he holds his bandaged hands. "I really am sorry about your hands."  
"It doesn't matter, Hermione," he says. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway."  
"That's no way to be thinking," I say.  
"Why not? It's true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and..." He hesitates.  
"And what?" I say.  
"I don't know how to say it exactly. Only... I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not."  
I bite my lip, feeling inferior. While I've been ruminating on the availibility of trees, Sora has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" I ask.  
"No, when the time comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to... to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games," says Sora.  
"But you're not," I say. "None of us are. That's how the Games work."  
"Okay, but within that framework, there's still you, there's still me," he insists. "Don't you see?"  
"A little. Only... no offense, but who cares, Sora?" I say.  
"I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" he asks angrily. He's locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding and answer.  
I take a step back. "Care about what Luxord said. About staying alive."  
Sora smiles at me, sad and mocking. "Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart."  
It's like a slap in the face. His use of Luxord's patronizing endearment. "Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve."  
"Wouldn't surprise me if you do," says Sora. "Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"  
"Count on it," I say. Then I turn and leave the roof.  
I spend the rest of the night slipping in and out of a doze, imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Sora Mellark in the morning. Sora Mellark. We will see how high and mighty he is when he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after they've killed them. There was a guy like that a few years ago from District 6 called Cloud. He went completly savage and the Gamemakers had to have him stunned with electric to collect the bodies of the players he'd killed before he ate them. There are no rules in the arena, but cannibalism doesn't play well with the audience, so they tried to head it off. There was some speculation that the avalanche that finally took Cloud out was specifically engineered to ensure the victor was not a lunatic.  
I don't see Sora in the morning. Sazh comes to me before dawn, give me a simple shift to wear, and guides me to the roof. My final dressing and preperations will be done in the catacombs under the arena itself. A hovercraft appears out of thin air, just like the one did in the woods the day I saw the redheaded Avox girl captured, and a ladder drops down. I place my hands and feet on the lower rungs and instantly it's as if I'm frozen. Some sort of current glues me to the ladder while I'm lifted safetly inside.  
I expect the ladder to release me then, but I'm still stuck when a woman in a white coat approaches me carrying a syringe. "This is just your tracker, Hermione. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.  
Still? I'm a statue. But that doesn't prevent me from feeling the sharp stab of pain as the needle inserts the metal tracking device deep under the skin on the inside of my forearm. Now the Gamemakers will always be able to trace my whereabouts in the arena. Wouldn't want to lose a tribute.  
As soon as the tracker's in place, the ladder releases me. The woman disappears and Sazh is retrieved from the roof. An Avox boy comes in and directs us to a room where breakfast has been laid out. Despite the tension in my stomach, I eat as much as I can, although none of the delectable food makes an impression on me. I'm so nervous, I could be eating coal dust. The one thing that distracts me at all is the view from the windows as we sail over the city and then to the wilderness beyond. This is what birds see. Only they're free and safe. The very opposite of me.  
The ride lasts about half an hour before the window black out, suggesting that we're nearing the arena. The hovercraft lands and Sazh and I go back to the ladder, only this time it leads down into a tube underground, into the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. We follow instructions to my destination, a chamber for my preparation. In the Capitol, they call it the Launch Room. In the districts, it's referred to as the Stockyard. The place animals go before slaughter.  
Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only tribute to use this Launch Room. The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular destinations for Capitol residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place. You can even take part in reenactments.  
They say the food is excellent.  
I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and clean my teeth. Sazh does my hair in my simple trademark braid down my back. Then the clothes arrive, the same for every tribute. Sazh has had no no say in my outfit, does not even know what will be in the package, but he helps me dress in the undergarments, simple tawny pants, light green blouse, sturdy brown belt, and thin, hooded black jacket that falls to my thighs. "The materialin the jacket's designed to reflect body heat. Expect some cool nights," he says.  
The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than I could have hoped for. Soft leather not unlike my ones at home. These have a narrow flexible rubber sole with treads, though. Good for running.  
I think I'm finished when Sazh pulls the gold mockingjay pin from his pocket. I had completly forgotten about it.  
"Where did you get that?" I ask.  
"Off the green outfit you wore oon the train," he says. I remember now taking it off my mother's dress, pinning it to the shirt. "It's your district token, right?" I nod and he fastened it on my shirt. "It barely cleared the review board. Some thought the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advantage. But eventually, they let it through," says Sazh. "They eliminated a ring from that District One girl, though. If you twisted the gemstone, a spike popped out. Poisoned one. She claimed she had no knowledge the ring transformed and there was no way the prove she did. But she lost her token. There, you're all set. Move around. Make sure everything feels comfortable."  
I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. "Yes, it's fine. Fits perfectly."  
"Then there's nothing to do but wait for the call," says Sazh. "Unless you think you could eat any more?"  
I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take tiny sips of as we wait on the couch. I don't want to chew my nails or lips, so I find myself gnawing on the inside of my cheek. It still hasn't fully healed from a few days ago. Soon the taste of my blood fills my mouth.  
Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on my forearm where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it, even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise begins to form.  
"Do you want to talk, Hermione?" Sazh asks.  
I shake my hand but after a moment hold out my hand to him. Sazh encloses it in both of his. And this is how we sit until a pleasent female voice announces it's time to prepare for launch.  
Still clenching one of Sazh's hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal plate. "Remember what Luxord said. Run, find water. The rest will follow," he says. I nod. "And remember this. I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you."  
"Truly?" I whisper.  
"Truly," says Sazh. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. "Good luck, girl on fire." And then a glass cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our handhold, cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high.  
I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder begins to rise. For maybe fifteen seconds, I'm in darknessand then I can feel the metal pushing me out of the cylinder, into the open air. For a moment, my eyes are dazzled by the bright sunlight and I'm conscious only of a strong wind with the hopeful smell of pine trees.  
Then I hear the legendary announcer, Cladius Templesmith, as his voice booms all around me.  
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"


End file.
